


/lost+found

by Scientia_Fantasia



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Professor Spock, Slow Build, Spock POV, Starfleet Academy, Student Spock, Teacher-Student Relationship, Whump, Worldbuilding, but then he's not, disability metaphor what disability metaphor, excessive computer science information, some humans are bullies, spock is lonely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-02 17:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8676292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scientia_Fantasia/pseuds/Scientia_Fantasia
Summary: Spock is the first Vulcan at Starfleet Academy, and Starfleet Academy is the first time Spock has been on Earth for an extended period of time. He hopes to find a place where his status as half-human isn't looked down upon so harshly, and tries to adapt to human life and human values.Then he meets some cadets who are willing to adapt to him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, Kirk doesn't show up until chapter 2.
> 
> Have fun.
> 
> (minor characters in this fic have no relation to characters in the star trek 'verse who have the same name, it's just slightly impossible to come up with names that haven't been used somewhere in it)

Earth was light.

Not as opposed to darkness, but as opposed to weight. He had visited before, but it was long ago—too long for even him to remember this lightness, the ease at which he filled his lungs.

Too easy. He felt dizzy for a moment, until he steadied his breath to a slower pace. _Lightheaded_. It was a term his mother had used many times before, one which he had often questioned the use of, as she no doubt felt heavy and unwieldy on his larger home planet.

The case he had filled with his belongings was now light enough to be carried with one hand. He trailed behind the group of chattering cadets who’d shared the transport shuttle, making note of the buildings around him in order to orient himself.

He was not looking for the dorms that most of the first-year cadets were. The Academy had granted him special permission to reside in housing which offered single rooms, taking into account the high value that Vulcans placed on privacy and solitude.

He continued on when the other cadets went around a corner, their heads swiveling around and mouths gaping. Quiet fell as they walked away, their voices slowly fading. Quiet, but not silence—the wind disturbed the trees and plants blanketing the campus, birds chirped and fluttered. The ever present background noise of humans making conversation, their words indistinct as the sound became scattered over the grass.

It took a considerable about of mental energy simply to walk. His steps were carefully measured to compensate for the altered gravity. His breathing was slowed. His jaw was consciously kept lax, against the urge to clench it to prevent shivering in the wind. The shivering was nonetheless suppressed.

It was a relief when he finally stood in front of the door to his living quarters, setting his belongings down.

There was a lock to the side of the door. There was no display, nor even keys to enter a code.

He stared at it for a moment, before looking up, turning his head to either side, searching for a resident in his immediate vicinity who may have been in a similar conundrum.

The quiet became suddenly undesirable. It was a considerable amount of time before another resident came into view, stepping up to their door and pulling something out of their pocket. They unfolded this something and pulled out a small card, that when held up to the lock caused the door to slide open and admit them.

An identification card.

Spock had not received an identification card.

He felt a wave of frustration wash over him, but quickly admonished himself, pushing the emotion from his mind. There was no use for frustration. A clear mind was a more valuable asset when solving problems.

He picked up his case, again, and began his walk to the administrative offices.

Perhaps a few suggestions regarding the administrative organization of the Academy would not go unappreciated.

***

 _A backlog of messages received on a belatedly acquired Academy-issued Personal Access Display Device_ :

 _Subject:_ Welcome!

_Language: Federation Standard_

_Content:_

Cadets,

Welcome to Starfleet Academy! We at the residency office extend our best wishes. You should have received an Academy personal identification card, your Starfleet cadet uniform, and of course, the PADD that you’re reading this on.

If you’re missing any of these, or if your uniform doesn’t fit, let us know and we’ll direct you towards the correct offices to rectify that.

If you find your housing insufficient for any reason, please contact us within the first two weeks of the semester. As always, we will strive to accommodate you to the best of our abilities.

Good luck!

-

 _Subject:_ Welcome to Hall East

_Language: English-influenced Federation Standard_

_Content:_

Hello Cadet Spock,

I’m the residential assistant for Hall East. As the title implies, my duties mostly involve making sure students here don’t disturb each other—if someone’s being too loud, you can come to me and I’ll get them to quiet down, or get the Academy to issue a fine if it’s happened too many times. That sort of thing. There shouldn’t be too many problems like that here, though, since almost everyone who lives here is an upperclassman who has since learned to behave themself.

I’m mostly writing you because we’ve never had a Vulcan living here before, so we might not have thought of everything you need in order to be comfortable. If there’s anything I can do for you in that regard, let me or the residential office know, and we’ll try to work something out.

Also, I’ve read that Vulcans aren’t very open about personal matters, so I apologize in advance if this offer is overstepping my bounds, but it feels right to make it: If you ever have questions about cultural differences or interpersonal relationships, you can ask me about those, too. I don’t really know what it’s like moving to a different planet, but I can guess it’s a lot to get used to. If you want help, feel free to send me a message or come talk to me.

The Academy also set up an Earth-culture database for offworld students, which you can access here; _[link redacted]_. There’s also a portal there for submitting anonymous questions if the computer can’t give you an answer.

Let me know if you need anything.

-Christine

-

 _Subject:_ Information regarding differing cultural practices between Terrans and Vulcans, confirmation of location of Vulcan Embassy and offering of its services

_Language: Standardized Vulcan_

_Content:_

This message is being transmitted on behalf of the Vulcan Embassy of San Francisco. Starfleet Academy has requested our services in assuring a tolerable educational environment during your time on Earth. We have presented them with information we decided relevant to your Vulcan physiology, though we do not have sufficient information to suggest what will be needed on account of your human heritage.

If you should meet resistance from Starfleet Academy in instituting any measure in line with your needs as a Vulcan, contact us for legal measures to be taken.

Live long and prosper.

_Attachments included: “Location of Vulcan Embassy and Enumeration of Services Provided,” “Discrepancies Observed Regarding Human Cultural Practices”_

***

He was thankful for his previous study regarding the structure of a human classroom, as it differed vastly from those on Vulcan, having a much greater focus on social interaction—mainly between the instructor and their students, but occasionally between the students themselves.

He could not say he was particularly looking forward to that aspect of it. He had a curiosity towards the process, of course—but he would have been content to observe it from the outside.

The human adage “sink or swim” came to mind.

He found it morbid.

Five minutes before class was scheduled to begin, he chose a seat unoccupied on all sides, making no acknowledgement of the other students in the room.

He was not afforded the same courtesy. In tones that, perhaps, would be inaudible to a human in his position, but were clear to his Vulcan ears, he heard a few students whisper between themselves about _green skin_ and _elf ears_ and _that haircut, oh god_ , interspersed with phrases that he could not understand the connotations behind.

He would not let it bother him. It was illogical to become defensive due to comments about physical appearance, as it was unrelated to his value as a…

A person.

***

“…well, if you _do_ come up with any questions later, feel free to shoot me a message. Now, enough about me, I want to know about you guys. Why don’t we start over here—tell me a little about yourself.”

The instructor made eye contact with Spock, who stared back, attempting to decipher the vague command.

“What information do you require?”

Someone behind him made a noise that sounded like a cough, and then a sputtering of stifled breaths.

“Oh. Well…your name, the track you’re pursuing, that sort of thing.”

“I do not know what ‘that sort of thing’ entails.”

“Uh,” said the instructor. “Okay. Just tell me,” they counted each item off on a finger, “your name, where you’re from, and whether you’re on the science, command, or engineering track.”

Spock did not know the purpose of relating information that could easily be found in the Academy’s database, but intuited that it was not the right time to ask.

“I have chosen to go by ‘Spock’ as of joining Starfleet, as it is a close approximation of my given name, which is difficult for humans to pronounce. I am from the planet Vulcan, and will be graduating from the science track.”

“Right,” said the instructor, after a significant pause which Spock could not decipher the meaning of. Another significant pause followed. During the second one, a few students made quiet comments, one of which was “ _yeesh_.” He did not know what that meant, either.

“Thank you, Cadet Spock,” their instructor finally said. “Alright. Who’s next?”

***

_Due to the limited capacity of human memory, classes are structured in a way that involves frequent repetition and simplified explanations of the subject matter. Students are expected to make notes of these explanations so that they may review them later as their short-term memory is not adept at storing specificities. It may be necessary to inform instructors that your abstinence from note-taking is not an indication of your lack of interest or attention, merely that Vulcans do not need to make use of such devices._

Spock’s fingers hovered over the PADD as he considered how best to phrase his next insight.

_However, some instructors may inexplicably take this statement as a personal rebuke. A careful consideration of the wording of your explanation is necessary to retain amicable professional relationships._

Vulcans had studied human cultural practices for centuries, as the two planets had a close alliance, and there was a multitude of Vulcan literature on the subject. Humans were a fascinating species that had practices that defied all logical explanation. It was only logical, then, that they would be a popular area of study. Yet, Vulcans considered their own educational system vastly superior to any other planets’. No Vulcan had ever felt the need to attend a school created, largely, by humans, that relied on Terran educational practices.

Thus, there were no Vulcan works that covered the intricacies of the human education system, and the difficulties a Vulcan might face were they to attend one.

Spock did not know if his insights would be considered “Vulcan literature,” so perhaps he would not be able to rectify that situation. But he could, at least, describe his experiences as a _half_ Vulcan who was raised on the planet, which, should any further residents decide to pursue a similar avenue of education, may provide useful.

There was no need for anyone to repeat his experience.

***

 _Subject_ : How are you doing?

_Language: Terran-influenced Standardized Vulcan_

_Content:_

My dearest Spock,

How have you been doing during your first week of classes? I cannot help but worry about you. Moving to a new planet and being surrounded by people who were not raised in the same culture was difficult for me, and you are much younger than I was.

But I do not know if age matters as much to Vulcans. This is why I must always ask after you, even when my inquiries into your emotional state frustrate you. I know they do. But I must selfishly ask anyway.

How do you find your quarters? How do you find your classes? How do you find humans, now that you are forced to interact with more than just me?

With love, as always,

Your mother.

***

He was, eventually, forced to eat a full meal. He had been surviving sufficiently well on “snacks” that he could purchase with minimal human interaction. Many Terran foods repulsed him, but he found that he could rely on fresh vegetables and varieties of nuts being available. He was particularly taken with cashews, though he did not enjoy the amount of salt that frequently accompanied them.

But he longed for Vulcan food, and it was not logical to seclude himself when so much of Starfleet’s operation relied on adequate social functioning. He would need to become used to humans, even if he could not reach an understanding of them.

He trailed behind a group of cadets to the cafeteria after their class ended.

It was…loud.

He resisted the urge to stop and gather his senses, putting one foot after the other and entering the echoing room, voices refracted into indistinction.

There was a small selection of fresh food available, but the majority of it was Terran.

He was not particularly looking to experiment. He longed for something simple and familiar, and most of all for a quick retreat into a quiet and secluded corner of the hall. He instructed a replicator to create a bowl of plomeek soup—along with a few tasteless nutritional additives, as he was very aware of the deficits in his diet since he had arrived on earth—and took it to the least occupied part of the room, sitting at a small table next to a window.

The sunlight was warm through the glass. He found himself relaxing, though he had not been wholly aware he was so tense. The taste of the soup was not quite the same as the recipe his mother was fond of, and the noise level was illogically loud, but he had found, however briefly, a moment of peace.

And then, only minutes later, someone sat across from him.

He felt his eyebrows draw together in a frown, though he tried not to let the expression show. He was not aware he had shown any indication of wanting to be joined for his meal. Perhaps there was some social cue he had neglected to express.

“Hey there,” said the person across from him. A human female—she had introduced herself as Sylvia, on the engineering track, in their shared _Overview of Federation Religions_ course.

“Hello,” replied Spock, dutifully. It was a simple script to follow. It was logical to employ it in various situations in order to assess potential modifications.

“I’m Sylvia,” said Sylvia, extending her hand towards him. “Remember me?”

For example: that very statement. That statement was not included in the script.

He stared at her hand for a moment, during which a great deal of careful deliberation ensued. In the end, he mirrored the gesture, taking her hand and “shaking” it as he was assured was the proper practice.

He had never made contact with a human other than his mother before. Sylvia’s emotional state was considerably less organized. She seemed amused by Spock’s reaction, somehow. She was determined towards some goal. There were hints of irritation and fatigue that he did not think were related to the current situation.

He pulled his hand back, perhaps too quickly.

He would purchase gloves later.

“Yes,” he responded, after taking a hopefully unnoticeable moment to compose himself. “A Vulcan’s memory is superior to that of an average human. I would not forget something that happened only five days ago.”

She laughed at this.

Spock stared at her. He did not understand that reaction, nor could he make an estimation as to the appropriateness of various responses. Thankfully, he did not need to.

“There’s a party tomorrow night,” she said, abruptly. “You should go with me.”

He tilted his head in question. “What does a ‘party’ entail?” he asked. He knew the definition of the word, but it was variable.

“Oh, you know…college stuff…alcohol, music…it’ll be a great chance to, uh, meet other cadets. You should come.”

He considered the proposition, as well as the implication of the repetition. It would be logical to attend such an event at least once, and it presented an opportunity to create social connections, an area in which Spock was noticeably lacking.

He nodded. “I will attend with you.”

Sylvia bared her teeth. It was a smile, but not like any he had ever seen.

“Good,” she said. “Great.”

She twisted her torso, looking around the room. Then she shifted, as if to stand from the chair—until she stilled, and returned to her settled position.

“You know I just asked you out on a date, right?”

Spock tilted his head, the furrow in his brow deepening. “No. I was not aware of that connotation behind your request.”

“Well, that’s what I meant. Go to the party with me, like as a couple.”

“I do not know what that entails, either.”

She put one of her hands on the table, with enough force to be audible.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll show you. See you there, okay?”

Then she did leave, pushing her chair out with an offending _screech_ and walking off to a different table, smiling at a group of cadets.

He had not been given the opportunity to decline, given his new knowledge about the nature of her request.

He would attend anyway, if only for curiosity’s sake.

***

 _Subject:_ I am well.

_Language: Standardized Vulcan, reluctantly Terran-influenced_

_Content:_

Mother,

It is not selfish to seek relief from worry. Emotional health is important to the wellbeing of humans. Therefore, allow me to reassure you that I am well, and if I were not, you would surely be informed of that fact.

My quarters are adequate. Starfleet Academy’s residential staff has made many inquiries into this same topic as to assure my comfort. They consider me more sensitive than I am. I admit to some discomfort, but it is attributed to circumstances that are either unable to be modified or I willingly bear in order to desensitize myself to small annoyances. The gravity and temperature of this planet are members of the first category; the noise I can hear through my walls belongs to the second. The sound is faint and can be “tuned out.” It does not bother me greatly.

My classes are adequate as well. The material intended to be presented as recorded in the syllabi of my courses is not as rigorous as education on Vulcan; however, the material unintentionally presented to me merely by attending a course with a majority human population has kept me occupied. The social rituals practiced here are many and often appear contradictory. I seek to understand them. It is with that goal in mind that I am attending a “party” this evening. I do not anticipate that it will be an enjoyable experience, but it has the potential to be an enlightening one.

I believe I have partially answered your inquiry regarding humans in my previous paragraph. However, I will elaborate on that point briefly. I find humans to be fascinating beings. I have much to learn about them. That this culture is so based on the individual puts our ideals on Vulcan in stark contrast; many ideals of which I have neglected to question. Reaching an understanding of human society will bring, in turn, a better understanding of Vulcan society. I devote myself to this study.

With affection,

Your son.

-

 _Subject:_ Inquiry about nonverbal signals as interpreted by humans

 _Language:_ _Federation Standard_

_Content:_

Cadet Chapel,

Is there a way to signal to human cadets that I do not wish to be disturbed during my meals in the Academy cafeteria?

Cadet Spock.

***

Sylvia showed up outside his door too late to arrive at the party at the indicated starting time. She had insisted on coming to get him, rather than vice versa, or simply meeting at the designated location.

“You’re wearing _that_?” was what she said by way of greeting.

Spock tilted his head to the side a few degrees, indicating his confusion.  “Is my uniform unsatisfactory?” He did notice that Sylvia was dressed in a different manner, her shirt lacking sleeves and her shoes high-heeled. The heels made her nearly as tall as Spock, though she was not much shorter than him beforehand.

“Well…uh…” She made a peculiar face, nose wrinkling and bottom lip pulling upwards. “Red really isn’t your color. What else do you have?”

“These are the only clothes I own that are in the human style.”

“Oh,” she said, with little intonation. “Well, um…” She looked him over, and then stepped closer, reaching for his collar—he fought the urge to back away. Humans did not place the same importance on personal space as Vulcans did. He had read this; that did not mean he was prepared.

She unzipped the outer uniform, revealing the black thermal shirt he wore underneath—an option for cadets more accustomed to warm weather. The cooler air was already seeping in at the breach of his top layer. The back of his neck, however, grew warm. He was still covered, but the action felt like a violation of his privacy in a way he could not entirely rationalize.

“There. Ditch the jacket,” she said. “You look better in black.”

That must have been what she meant when she referred to red as not “his” color. It was an appeal to aesthetics. However, despite that appeal, he found that he did not want to comply with her request. He did not _want_ to. It was an alarming experience; the emotion leapt to the forefront of his mind before any logical explanation as to why he should not.

“I will not,” he said, and then searched for a reason why. “The temperature here is below what I consider comfortable.”

“It’ll be a lot warmer at the party, though.” It was not said in a reassuring manner. She seemed to be irritated at him for not complying.

“If I become warm, I will remove it.” He did not plan on removing it, but he did not think it likely that any temperature comfortable for humans would be too warm for a Vulcan. It was not a lie.

“Alright, whatever. Come on, it’s this way.”

***

Human parties were loud. It seemed to him unnecessarily so. Vulcans did have more sensitive hearing than humans, but surely the difference was not so great that the music had to be at such a level to be enjoyed. It was also crowded, and Sylvia had been correct in informing him that it would be warmer. He was comfortable at this temperature—however, the glistening of sweat on many of the attendee’s faces indicated that they were not.

He would need to observe further to discover what was so enjoyable about this particular atmosphere.

Sylvia led him by his elbow around the dim, crowded house, occasionally greeting people briefly before moving on, until she spotted a particular group and moved to join them.

“Oh my god,” one of them said, “you actually got him to come.”

Sylvia pulled him closer to her side as he considered the implications of her friends’ astonishment.

“See,” she said. “Told you.”

***

The main purpose of the event was, apparently, to consume alcohol and become inebriated. Spock dutifully followed Sylvia around and observed both her conversations and others, while drinking whatever was presented to him by her. There were a variety of substances of a variety of colors and tastes, though none that he found particularly strong, and none that he found particularly inebriating.

That is, until Sylvia approached someone who seemed to have an air of authority over the party—the host, perhaps?—and reported this situation to him with some exasperation.

“He’s not getting drunk at _all_ ,” she said. “Do you have anything stronger?”

The host looked at him, and grinned, widely and slowly.

“Oh, I know _exactly_ what this calls for,” he said, and walked to the kitchen (considerably unencumbered, as most of the guests seemed to be sitting down on either the furniture or on another guest), opening a cabinet once there.

He pulled out a green bottle with a silver label, and poured the similarly green liquid into a glass, nearly filling it.

He held it out to Spock, who took it, gingerly, carefully avoiding making contact with his hands.

“A green drink for our green friend,” the host said, evidently amused with something. “Drink up.”

Spock frowned at the liquid. He did not enjoy the smell of it—it was a scent he had become familiar with during his short time on Earth, and was not entirely eager to taste.

He took a large drink of it anyways. It was indeed unpleasant.

“I do not enjoy the taste of this,” he informed the two onlookers.

“Yeah, the taste isn’t the point, though,” Sylvia said, leaning on the counter. “Finish it.”

He considered his options for a moment. He did not, in hindsight, take long enough to properly do so. But it was a human party, after all, and he had gone there with the intention of experiencing it as humans did.

He tipped his head back, and finished the glass.

Sylvia’s attempt to hold back a smile was not very convincing.

***

His eyesight seemed to be malfunctioning. As was his sense of balance. And his mental shields. Nothing, really, seemed to be working quite right.

There was giggling, and then he realized it was coming from Sylvia, and perhaps one of her friends.

“You’re really fucked up,” she said. “You should sit down.”

He did not see anywhere that had adequate space to do so. However, Sylvia either found or created such space, and pushed him down into a couch, where he was shoved between two arms—one of the couch, and one of a human. Emotions were seeping in from all directions, hanging in the air like moisture. Sylvia sat in his lap, her weight negligible under the lower gravitational pull.

Fatigue. Sadness. Joy. Arousal.

She was swaying slightly. Perhaps _he_ was swaying slightly. Perhaps it was the room itself.

She leaned down and pressed her mouth against his, lips wet and soft and altogether foreign.

Her emotions stumbled into his. She was enjoying the action, but without a hint of affection. It was amusement and victory and the simple stimulation of the physical contact.

He found himself sympathizing. He did not carry particular affection for Sylvia, but there was something about the touch that he wished to continue. He enjoyed her weight on him and the connection she provided even if he did not particularly enjoy _her_.

Their emotions were reciprocated.

He attempted to reciprocate physically, as well, mirroring her actions, letting one of his hands find a place at her hip. In return, her hand found its place under his shirt, sliding up, splaying against his side.

He could not remain vigilant against the stream of emotions and sensation, so he allowed himself to fall into it, instead—there was much to fall into. Human emotions were complex and easy to get lost in. The physical sensations were even more alien, and evoked a strange mix of emotional reactions from him.

Sylvia’s free hand moved to unfasten his pants.

His emotional reactions became, suddenly, unmixed. He felt shame, and embarrassment, and alarm, becoming aware of his position amidst a large group of people, underneath a human he did not trust.

He grabbed her wrist, forgetting for a moment his superior strength. She cried out in pain, the sensation working to clear both of their minds, if only for the moment.

He let go immediately. “I apologize,” he said, the words taking more concentration than usual. “I would prefer to return to my room now.”

“Ooh, but we’re just getting to the good part.” She placed a hand on his chest, applying a small amount of pressure. “It’ll feel nice, I promise.”

“No,” he said. “I am leaving.”

Her eyes turned to the ceiling. “ _Fine_ ,” she said, and stood up, having to steady herself on the arm of the couch. “Have fun getting back, though. You’re pretty fucked up.” That was the second time she had used that phrase. He could infer what the meaning was.

“Goodbye.”

***

The walk back to his room _was_ , by the sarcastic meaning of the word, ‘fun.’ It was as if he was learning how to walk again, the weight of his body foreign on the planet along with the misplaced assumption that he, at that moment, had complete ownership of his limbs. He planned a path that had enough walls and guard rails to get him back without ending up any closer to the ground than he needed to be.

The door to his residence hall presented another unique challenge when he had to try a second time to get his hand to connect with the handle. He decided to take the elevator up to the floor he resided on rather than chance the stairs, and it was when he was closing his eyes in an attempt to get the elevator buttons to stop swaying in front of him that he heard someone approach.

He turned to look at them, sluggishly. It was Christine Chapel. He recognized her from the portrait on her file.

“Spock?” she said, without any emotion that he could decipher.

“Obviously.” He placed a hand on the wall to steady himself.

“Are you alright?”

He thought about it for a moment. “I do not know,” he decided on. “I may need assistance returning to my room.”

“What happened?”

He shut his eyes. He would rather be sleeping than talking. He would rather have been waking up hours after, the effects of this already worn off.

“I was invited to a party. I was asked to drink. I did, and now I am inebriated.”

“Have you ever done this before?”

“No.”

“Then I think you should come with me,” she said. She did not, however, immediately move to lead him anywhere. “There’s a room next to mine. I’d feel better if I could keep an eye on you until you know how you’re going to react.”

He stared at her for a moment. It was a logical course of action. She was in training to go into the medical field, and would likely know what to do if complications arose.

Besides. He would be asleep sooner if he agreed.

“I will go with you,” he conceded. She led him down the hallway.

***

It was light again when he woke up. His world was not steady yet. The only difference seemed to be that he was now alarmingly nauseous.

He slid out of the strange bed, conscious thought focused almost entirely on walking steadily and keeping his stomach calm long enough to reach the bathroom.

He was grateful for the glass placed on the edge of the sink. He rinsed his mouth, thoroughly.

He returned to bed, thankful for the unconscious respite from the emotions attempting to arise within him.

***

 _Subject:_ I am pleased to hear from you

_Language: Terran-influenced Standardized Vulcan_

_Content:_

My dearest Spock,

I spent much time in your youth worrying silently about many things. I did not wish to speak of them to you directly, as your father assured me you would be embarrassed and discussing them would likely have brought about the opposite of what I sought to attain. However, I believe you are old enough now to both bear the embarrassment as well as give my words the consideration they are due, whether or not you find yourself in agreement.

Emotional health is important to you, as well, my son. You are not so separate from humans. I do not presume to know what manner of emotional management is healthiest for you, but I urge you not to consider the teachings of Surak the only possible path, or to simplify those teachings unnecessarily. You are among humans now. Take your time there to consider if a human way of life is not more desirable to you.

I am pleased you find Starfleet Academy adequate. I do hope that you will seek out enjoyable experiences, and not simply enlightening ones. I consider joy to be a key element to a learned life.

With love, no matter which paths you choose to walk,

Your mother.

***

He did not attend his classes that Monday, as he awoke with a severe headache that was only worsened by bright lights and any sound—he found himself actively resenting the lack of foresight that resulted in such thin walls in the building. He did not want to hear the footsteps or conversations outside. He did not, indeed, want to hear anything.

Cadet Chapel’s foresight was not as lacking. When he opened his eyes, braving the pain for a moment to examine the room, he discovered a small packet of painkillers on the nightstand, as well as a bottled liquid bearing a label written in Vulcan. He reached out and picked it up to examine it, discovering that it was a concentrated form of a Vulcan tea, containing herbs used on his home planet to relieve nausea.

His mother had made something similar for him when he had fallen ill in the past. He would need to ask Cadet Chapel where one acquired such a thing in San Francisco.

But not immediately. He took only the painkillers, as his nausea had subsided, and closed his eyes, focusing inward. He was not tired. He had already slept twice as much as he usually would have in such a span of time. Instead, he pulled himself into a light trance, hoping to wait out the rest of the process.

He had no need to be conscious, and even less of a desire to be so.

***

It was not until he returned to his room that he realized two things: the first, that it was Monday, and he had slept through his classes; the second, that he was missing the top half of his cadet’s uniform. He had somehow left the party in his undershirt.

He would order a new one. Perhaps Sylvia would return it, but he did not wish to rely on her.

It would not harm him to have a spare.

***

_Subject: [No subject]_

_Language: Standardized Vulcan_

_Content:_

I appreciate your advice, mother. I will meditate on it.

Spock.

***

Sylvia did not speak to him again. He did not find himself disappointed by this fact. Though he did wish to create connections during his time at the academy, she was not where he wished to begin.

He had learned much about human social rituals from her, though he could not say he had reached an understanding of much of it. Though he had learned one important fact—Vulcans could not digest sucrose, and it resulted in effects similar to humans imbibing ethanol. It was for that reason that many human foods were not appetizing.

He had also learned not to accept invitations to parties.

Unfortunately, it seemed that parties were the most common form of structured social interaction available to him.

He was not sure how to proceed.

***

 _Subject:_ Join our club

_Language: A mix of Federation Standard and Casual English. Difficult to understand without a dictionary._

_Content:_

Hey Spock!

Are you doing any extracurriculars this semester, cause I think it’d be great if you joined my clubs. I run the computer science one and the chess club and we all think it’d be really cool to have a Vulcan member so I hit our comp sci prof. up for your handle. We both meet weekly so it’s a good opportunity to get out of the dorm, yknow? Let me know.

-Sarka

 _Attachments included:_ finalcsiflier002.png, chessclubflierBETTER.png

***

Spock could not recall having verbally spoken to anyone for the last two weeks.

It was not difficult to let slip by. He had discovered the least busy times of the day to take his few meals. There was little opportunity to speak in class, and the times that there were he allowed to be taken by someone else. There was no need to confirm his own knowledge of the subject. He was confident in his understanding.

Other than meals and classes, he stayed in his room. It was the quietest environment in which to complete his studies, both academic and personal.

He found himself sleeping every night. He could not think of another way to occupy his time.

This was strange for him. He could not remember such a habit appearing on Vulcan, where even if he satisfactorily completed his studies, he always had other things to turn to; small projects and pursuits of his own. He often felt as if there were not enough time, even in the longer, still days of his home.

Now he found himself sitting awake in the moonlit night with a yearning in his mind that he did not know how to fulfill.

So he slept.

Perhaps it would be wise of him to take the opportunity to do something else with his time.

***

He arrived at the listed room a minute beforehand. There were only two people present beside him, which was simultaneously a source of relief and trepidation. Relief, because this was obviously not going to be an event such as the one he attended with Sylvia—trepidation, because he could not be invisible in such a group.

But he had not had the comfort of social invisibility since setting foot on Earth. Even if many humans were too polite to point out his presence as an alien species, they still took notice of him.

He stepped into the room.

The two occupants looked up at him, and one of them grinned. “Spock!” he said, getting up from a table, somewhat clumsily, and going over to him. “You actually showed—hi, I’m Erik.” He grabbed Spock’s hand, unceremoniously, and shook it between both of his own. Spock was relieved he had worn gloves, so the action was only somewhat alarming. “This is my _VP_ , Reshmi.”

The other student at the table waved, smiling. Spock nodded in acknowledgement, while attempting to pull his hand back from the enthusiastic greeting. It took more effort than would generally be necessary. He adjusted his glove.

“More of us’ll show,” Erik continued, looking around. “Me’n her just show up early to set up the room and stuff. So, do you play?”

Spock was having a significant amount of difficulty comprehending Erik’s speech patterns. If the message he had sent beforehand was any indication, his Standard was interspersed with colloquial English. Spock had not given much study to English, though he could comprehend much of it when used in appropriate contexts. With this, he was reduced to guessing.

“Do I play?” he repeated.

“Yeah. Chess. Do you play chess? You know, chess club. Chess.”

“A single clarification was sufficient,” Spock said, eyebrows drawing together in equal parts confusion and irritation. Erik’s grin faltered slightly, as well. He did not know for what reason human speech patterns varied so widely—it did not aid in communication. The exact opposite was true. “I have played a game similar to it in the past, but it is not the same. I will require some instruction.”

“Right—okay, no problem.” Erik returned to the table and began setting up a game, motioning at a chair. Spock sat. “So, white moves first…” He explained the rules as he placed the pieces on the board. Other than the various rules governing movement, the game was simple. He was appreciative of that fact, as it left the players the sole determining factor of victory.

He was invited to play Reshmi due to her status as “probably a better teacher.” She, however, stayed blessedly quiet throughout the game, as more cadets entered the room and began talking amongst themselves. The branches of probability spanned out before him, and he recognized the necessity of practice in order to know which threads to pursue.

Reshmi won, and offered him a smile. “I’ll take my victories where I can,” she said. “I doubt I’ll get many more against you.”

He did not know what to say to that. “Thank you,” he chose, as it seemed like the least offensive option. She inclined her head in acknowledgement, and stood to join the ever growing group of cadets standing around the room and talking with each other. It seemed that chess was a popular pastime for those at Starfleet Academy—logical, considering that tactical strategy was a required course and the game had many elements that heightened such thinking.

A mention of the word “Vulcan” in the midst of the many conversations caught his attention, and he turned to its source despite himself.

He met eyes with a startled cadet. The two people gathered around him noticed this response and followed his line of sight back to Spock, though they only took a moment before turning back to their friend. “ _Come on_ ,” one of them said, nudging him with their elbow, “ _he doesn’t bite. Probably_.” The other took a less subtle approach and shoved the cadet forward, causing him to stumble a few steps before he caught himself. Faced between continuing his trajectory and turning back to his friends, he chose what seemed to be the path of least resistance, and approached Spock.

“Hi,” he said. “Uh…I’m Nathaniel. Nate. Um…wanna play?” He gestured towards the chess board, and Spock acquiesced, rearranging the pieces into their proper starting positions.

“I am Spock,” he informed him as he sat down. “Though it has been my experience that many here are already aware of that.”

“Yeah, you’re kinda famous, I guess.” He took the first move. “It’s not every day we get a Vulcan at Starfleet.”

“It would seem not.”

Nate was very hesitant in his moves, taking time nearly every turn to hover his hand over his pieces before he finally chose one. This allowed Spock more than sufficient time to construct a strategy, and he achieved a swift victory.

“Wow, you’re really good at this,” Nate said, looking over the final arrangement of the board. “We should meet up sometime so you can give me some pointers or…something.”

Spock tilted his head. Here, too, the cadet’s hesitance betrayed his strategy. “You regularly attend a chess club,” he said. “If you were only seeking to improve your skill, you have had plenty of opportunities. I can only assume you are requesting my company with ulterior motives.”

“Heh,” said Nate, his face flushing. “I wouldn’t say _ulterior_ , I just…wanna get to know you. You’re…” his gaze wandered as he seemed to search for a descriptor. “Interesting. So, uh, do you want to hang out sometime?”

Spock stared at him, considering the honesty of the revised request. “I would not be opposed to your company,” he decided. Perhaps spending time out of his room would help to correct his sleep habits. “When would you like to meet?”

***

 _Subject:_ My Apologies, and Further Discussion of the Human Way of Life

_Language: Terran-Influenced Standardized Vulcan_

_Content:_

Mother,

I apologize for the terse nature of the message I had sent previous to this. I recognize in hindsight that it was a consequence of my emotional and physical state at the time, and I do not wish you to think that it was in any way due to the advice you had imparted on me.

The party I had attended left me in a state of discomfort. My companion provided me a drink and I partook without considering the consequences of the action. I was not aware that consumption of sucrose left Vulcans in an inebriated state, and was similarly not aware that it featured so consistently in Terran food. I am aware that our Vulcan society does not lightly release information that creates an impression of our species that is anything less than invulnerable, but I find value in informing Vulcan visitors to Earth of this particular fact.

It took me three days of bed rest to fully recover, though I did not suffer any permanent harm.

Perhaps the fault is mine for consuming a liquid that my gustatory perception so readily informed me was not fit for consumption.

In regards to what you refer to as the “human way of life;” I am not certain there is such a single thing. I cannot discern a pattern that governs the way humans behave. If you will forgive me for saying such, I find human behavior to be largely erratic and illogical. I do not see any benefit to considering it.

Your messages are a welcome constant in this strange time.

Spock.

***

Nate proved to be reasonable company. He joined Spock at lunch a number of times and discussed chess, and popular television shows, and course subjects that he was currently studying.

Though perhaps “discuss” was the wrong word. When they were not sitting in what Spock found to be companionable silence, it was generally Nate speaking on some subject and not leaving much room for response. It did not bother Spock greatly, as the conversations were enlightening, in their own way, and perhaps occasionally enjoyable.

Of great value in particular to Spock was that Nate asked him on multiple instances to accompany him to establishments located off campus, which was a unique experience. The public transport required to travel further distances was at times overwhelming to his senses--he could not always ignore the multitude of emotions seeping through the air--but he could stand it for short periods of time.

It was at a busy café only blocks from campus that Nate posed him the question, eyes cast downwards into his coffee;

“So, are you, um...interested in men?”

Spock stared at him across the table, hands circled around a slowly cooling mug of tea. “Interested in men?” he repeated, tilting his head. The phrasing did not hold any connotation that informed him of its meaning. “In what way are you referring?”

Nate frowned, eyebrows drawing together for a moment in an expression that Spock read as irritation. “Y’know, like...” he met his eyes, as if searching for something. “Would you date one? I just figure--like, Vulcans, I bet it’s illogical or something to have a relationship with someone who you can’t have kids with…right?”

The sentence settled in Spock’s mind as he ruminated over it. There were human societal ideas there that he did not think he had come to fully understand yet. And so, he answered the simplest question he could find. “I would not be opposed to entering a relationship merely upon the basis that my partner is male.” Never mind the various complexities of human relationships that he had yet to encounter, and the many erroneous conclusions that his conversation partner had evidently drawn about Vulcan society.

“Oh,” said Nate. “Okay, cool.” He was smiling at his coffee now, his face flushed.

Spock felt a sense of unease that he could not entirely discern the source of.

He brought his tea to his lips and drank deeply, closing his eyes.

Perhaps it was simply due to the large amount of people he was currently surrounded by. He would think upon it at a later date.

***

On his third attendance of the chess club, the other cadets ceased challenging him.

Not many had attempted in the first place. He postulated that this was due to the social nature of their meetings, and the fact that Spock was not a very social being. Many of the other cadets conversed during their games, and the result of their match was inconsequential.

Those who challenged Spock were quiet, and became steadily more frustrated with each victory that he achieved against them.

During the first meeting, he had learned the rules and observed the other cadet’s strategies. He had played few games, and had won only slightly more than he lost.

The second meeting, he did not lose once.

The third, he won once, because only one cadet had been willing to play him.

The vacant seat across from him was soon occupied by Nate, instead.

“Would you like to play?” Spock asked, finding himself hopeful. It was a test of his logical capacities that he had not experienced since joining Starfleet. He had not realized until his time playing chess that his studies had been so lacking.

“Oh,” Nate said, looking over the board, his eyebrows drawn together. “Um…no, thanks.”

***

Nate was particularly fond of bookshops. There were not many in the city, and the few that there were were small and situated in corners of business complexes that were easily missed, without much obvious advertisement of their location.

Spock found them…illogical, but not entirely unenjoyable. Paper was no longer the common medium for publishing such works, as digital releases were easier, cheaper, and less wasteful, but it seemed there was still a small market for paper copies, as there were new releases lined up near the front of the store.

It seemed, however, that these “bookshops” made most of their profit off the stock of electronic gadgets they carried, and the café they maintained for customers that sat in their store and read, or conversed with their companions.

They were preferable to the few other sites he had visited off of Starfleet Academy’s campus, as they were quiet, uncrowded, and not harshly lit. He was beginning to even see the benefit to printed material, at the very least due to the serendipity it allowed.

Nate often walked along the bookcases, scanning the spines before picking off a book from the shelf and flipping through the pages or reading the cover. Spock did not ever see him purchase a book after this process, but it was a fascinating one to watch.

“Oh, I’ve read this one,” he said, standing on his toes to pull a small book from the shelf. “It’s pretty old. Pre-warp.” This particular copy seemed quite aged, as well. “They, um…” he turned a few pages, too quickly to be reading. “Used telepathic connections to figure out how to break the light speed barrier. It’s kind of romantic, don’t you think?”

It did not qualify under any idea of “romance” that Spock was aware of. However, “It is certainly pragmatic.”

“Yeah but, that’s basically the same thing to you, right?” Nate said, with an uneasy smile as he looked around their immediate area. They were in a dim corner in the back of the store, removed from any other patrons. Spock watched carefully as the other cadet slid the book back to its place on the shelf and then turned his attention to him, only reluctantly meeting his eyes. “Can I, um…” he held a hand out, palm-up. “Can I hold your hand?”

Spock stared at him, and found himself habitually tilting his head in question. He knew there was some cultural connotation to the action, but was not entirely aware of what it was, as it seemed to vary between Earth sub-cultures.

What he did know is that he enjoyed physical contact, to an extent, and that the emotional transference it allowed provided valuable insight into the motivations of humans and their reactions to outside occurrences.

He removed a glove and placed his hand in Nate’s, at which point the other cadet interlaced their fingers, his smile growing as joy similarly radiated from his person. Joy, and anxiety, and triumph.

Triumph—it was an emotion that has thus far seemed consistent in his interactions with humans. He wondered what exactly the goal was that they had found themselves overcoming.

“You are inordinately pleased with this action,” he said. “May I question why?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” was the answer, of sorts, and Spock was not allowed further questioning, as Nate was already leading him out of the bookshop by his hand, describing their next destination as something that Spock _had_ to see, though Spock was not aware they had planned to go anywhere else that afternoon.

He had little choice but to follow.

***

 _Subject:_ Well wishes

_Language: Terran-influenced Standardized Vulcan_

_Content:_

My dearest Spock,

I do admit to worrying that I had embarrassed you beyond speech, and am pleased to hear that that was not the case, though the true cause does not comfort me otherwise. It does not sound to me that you had a pleasant experience. I hope that this does not turn you away from social gatherings entirely, as they take many different forms, some of which you may come to enjoy. Have you found any companions at the Academy that you place your trust in?

I too find value in informing young Vulcans about the effects of sucrose before they visit Earth. I was unaware that you had not been told, though I believe I have partial responsibility for not taking it upon myself to inform you. For that, I apologize. I do not believe you are at fault for the incident.

I readily forgive you for describing human behavior as erratic and illogical, as I believe you are correct in saying so. There is no single pattern easily discernable in the way we choose to behave—however, that there is no pattern is a pattern in itself.

What I had been referring to is the tendency of humans towards individuality, but perhaps I too hastily ascribed that trait to the entire population. Humans, too, have instances where they are uncomfortable with individuals who do not conform, but rarely does it reach levels that are comparable to what I have observed in Vulcan society.

You were raised, despite my best efforts to combat it, to compare yourself to others and find yourself lacking. My greatest wish is that you will come to see yourself as only lacking inasmuch as any being in the universe has not achieved perfection. My hope is that your time on Earth will help to inform you of that.

With love,

Your Mother.

***

Spock’s schedule had indeed changed to allow him less sleep, as Nate requested his company nearly every day. He saw no reason to decline the opportunity to socialize, though as the weeks went by, he was considering his mother’s advice to seek out enjoyable experiences alongside enlightening ones. He did not find Nate’s company disagreeable, but neither did he find himself anticipating these experiences, as he had anticipated his games at the chess club when they had lasted. As he had anticipated learning about Earth culture during his first month at the academy. As he had anticipated many things in his childhood.

There were not many things, he realized, that he found enjoyable about his current situation. He could not, however, name anything particularly dissatisfying. He was simply existing.

Nate accompanied him to his door one night.

It was odd that the cadet did not excuse himself at the usual cross-section of sidewalk to return to the first-year dormitories. He continued relating his tale and did not release Spock’s hand even when they approached the door to his room. He was thankful, once again, for the gloves he had purchased, as he was feeling particularly fatigued for reasons he could not name, and the extended emotional transference had great potential to be overwhelming.

“So, this is your room?” Nate asked, as they came to a stop in front of it.

“Yes,” Spock answered. He greatly wished for the cadet to leave soon, and considered when to best express that.

“Can I…come in?”

Spock frowned. There was a significant reason that he had been provided a single room—his living space was exceedingly private and was meant to be a place of solace. It spoke to his ignorance of humanity, perhaps, that the request came as such an abject surprise, but he could not rescind his emotional response once it had expressed itself on his features.

“No,” he said.

“What?” said Nate, frowning as well, though his expression was a mix of emotion that Spock did not immediately comprehend, and was not willing to expend the energy to attempt to do so. “Why not?”

“You are unaware of Vulcan customs.” It was an obvious conclusion. “You are not…” he struggled for a word in Standard that conveyed the meaning he had in mind. “You are not family,” he settled on. “It would be an intrusion.”

“Yeah, but…you can make an exception for me, can’t you?”

“No,” Spock said, again, tilting his head. For what reason would he? They were not especially close.

“Oh,” said Nate, gaze dropping to the floor. “Well, there was something I kind of wanted to talk to you about…in private…”

“We are, for the moment, in private.”

Nate looked around the empty hallway. “Yeah, I guess we are,” he mumbled. “Okay, well…”

He reached down and took Spock’s other hand, staring earnestly into his eyes, gaze steady for one of the few times since they had met.

“Spock,” he said, deliberately. “I’m in love with you.”

Spock stared at him.

Love?

Did that not require a deeper connection than mere acquaintanceship? He did not see that their meetings had held any particular meaning other than base companionship, but it seemed that his experience had greatly differed from the other cadet’s. Still—he did not think he was mistaken in categorizing much of their friendship, if that was the correct word, as spectacularly one-sided.

“Aren’t you…aren’t you going to say something?”

He did not know what to say. He was aware that there was some way to end this conversation that was polite, kind, and would result in minimal emotional upset to Nate, but the logistics of that response escaped him.

“I do not know what to say,” he admitted, falling back on honesty.

“Well…that’s okay. I mean, if you don’t feel the same, I know it’s pretty sudden but we can work on this, if you…if you need time…”

“I do not need time. This is not how I view the nature of our relationship.”

Nate’s eyes grew wide. “What?” he asked, voice taking on a note of strain. “What do you mean?”

“My feelings towards you are not romantic.”

“But—” Tears began to fall from Nate’s eyes. “You let me hold your _hand_ , I…I’m in _love_ with you!” At this insistence he let go of Spock’s gloved hands and grabbed his uncovered wrists, instead—Spock flinched back at the contact, pulling away instinctively both from the uninvited touch and the emotions that even momentarily ran through his system. He could not identify them. He did not wish to. But they were, undoubtedly, overwhelming.

“I apologize for any of my actions that were grounds for misinterpretation,” he said—recited—grasping at any chance of placation. Nate was intermittently sobbing now, and Spock greatly wished for him to stop, as his volume had attracted at least one unrelated party, as evidenced by the hiss of an opening door somewhere down the hallway.

His face grew warm. There was now an audience to his societal blunder, which he could not fathom beginning to correct. He grasped his hands in front of him, staring unblinkingly at the sobbing cadet.

“Please,” he said, steadily, as the urge to be immediately alone was the only one he could begin to express, “leave.”

“You’re so fucking _heartless_ ,” Nate wailed, shoving both of his palms into Spock’s chest, but did, thankfully, leave, his footsteps thundering down the hallway.

Spock retreated into his room before any more curious humans could appear.

Heartless. The organ beating almost painfully at his side spoke to the inaccuracy of that statement in at least its literal sense. Figuratively, however--how the statement was meant to be taken...he could not speak to its accuracy. He had been admonished on Vulcan for any expression of emotion, by his peers and often his superiors as well, even if their admonishment was not expressed so physically. Now, even on Earth, where emotionality was the norm...

His breathing became erratic for a moment, and he grabbed the edge of his desk to steady himself. He had not expected the memory of his past treatment on Vulcan to affect him to this extent, but the sudden realization that he may not have escaped such reaction, even on the planet that was the origin of the half of his genetic makeup that had troubled him for so long--it was...terrifying.

He closed his eyes and focused his attention on his breathing and heartrate, willing the adrenaline to cease coursing through his system unnecessarily. He was not in any danger at the moment, and had no evidence that said he may be in the future. This reaction was illogical.

He took a deep breath, the oxygen-rich air flooding his system and leaving him momentarily disoriented. Once he found himself again, he had calmed, the events of minutes ago pushed to the back of his mind.

He would not sleep tonight. He had much to meditate over.

***

When he next attempted to attend chess club, Erik stopped him in the doorway.

“Hey, Spock,” he said, leaning on the wall, arms crossed. “Listen, it’s nothing personal, but...I think it’d be best if you stayed away from chess club for a while. It’s just...” He moved his hands around in a gesture that was not entirely clear. “Y’know...Nate. I don’t want to create a schism or anything. You understand, right?”

“Yes,” Spock said. “I would not want to create tension.” He nodded, breaking eye contact. He did, of course, understand, but his emotional reaction was independent from the logic of the situation. “Thank you for informing me.”

He turned and left, hands grasped in front of him, eyes turned downwards. Much of his time in the past month had been spent with Nate, and his schedule had shifted to accommodate that. Nate no longer wanted to be around him, and now he was not allowed to attend the chess club, either, on account of his mishap.

He did not know what to do with himself.

He simply returned to his room.

***

Three days later, he opened his door to leave and was immediately confronted with the stench of latex paint. He covered his nose, frowning against the offensive smell, and looked down to find a cadet’s jacket. It was rumpled haphazardly on the floor and soaking in a puddle of half-dried green paint, which was now seeping in past the doorway.

He stared at it.

He could not pull his eyes away, even as the paint began pooling against his shoes.

Sylvia.

But why? And why so long after he had spoken to her? Was it possible that somehow his alienation from one group had affected her in some way, or was this simply a convenient opportunity for her to act upon a desire that she had held since they parted ways?

He searched for reason in the situation. If there were reason, he could make this stop. If there were reason, he did not have to admit that the locus of control was far, far beyond him.

He sought logic, because if he sought his emotions, he did not feel he would ever return from them.

He shut his door. He took off his shoes, and walked to his bathroom to rinse them. The motions felt outside of himself, but they were soothing, in a way.

He would not allow this to interrupt his schedule. He would notify maintenance and request they remove the vandalism. He would attend class. He would not avoid his room, but rather return to it as usual. No one who was not involved in this incident would realize it had happened.

It would not affect him.

***

He sat at his desk in the quiet of his room and stared at the wall behind it.

It was never completely silent. There was a white noise to civilization. The hum of climate controls, the footsteps in the hall, the quiet but deep thrum of intermingling sounds that found their way through his window. He listened to these as time passed him by, unnoticed.

The desire to move rose slowly to his consciousness and he allowed it to happen, reaching for his PADD and setting it in front of him, navigating to the messages his mother had sent.

He opened the last, and replied to it, fingers deliberately typing out each word, forming familiar syllabaries from the inelegant human interface.

 _I have not found any I can place my trust in_ , he wrote.

_You say that humans have a less severe reaction to nonconformity than Vulcans. It must be an exceptional subject that inspires similar retaliation from either group._

He sent it.

His hand hovered over his mother’s contact information afterwards, and despite the display informing him of the late hour on his home planet, he requested a video call.

A graphic displayed on a loop as it attempted to make a sub-space connection between their planets. It succeeded, and soon notified him that it was waiting for a response from the other party.

He watched his screen for an impossibly long moment, until the graphic stopped, a message informing him that there was no response.

Yes. Of course there was no response. It was only logical—he should, in fact, be happy that his mother was getting sufficient rest, instead of staying awake at night working on her translator as she was prone to doing.

But he could not suppress the sudden surge of loneliness he felt in that moment. There; that was the name for the dissatisfaction he felt with his current situation, the weight underlying his thoughts, present despite his continued efforts to not acknowledge its existence.

Loneliness.

He closed his eyes, and allowed himself a moment of childish respite, reaching for one last solution before the weight became too much to bear. He could not seek his mother out at this moment in time, but there was some part of her that was always with him. His memories of her. Her voice, her hands, the advice she gave, even if Spock did not heed it at the time.

He looked up at the blank expanse of the wall in front of him.

“I had hope,” he told the empty room, his quiet voice seeming still too loud in the silence. “It is illogical to hope, but I could not help thinking on my time on Earth with anticipation. I am not Vulcan. There were those who spared no chance to remind me of that fact. So I turned my thoughts to Earth, considering that I may more easily find my place among humans.”

He blinked the moisture out of his eyes, his throat growing tighter.

“I am not human.”

The admission did not lessen the weight he felt. It was now too much to ignore, pulling him towards the small planet, bowing his head. He braced his hands on his knees to combat it, shoulders hunched, tears running down his face and finding their way to the floor.

Perhaps there had been truth in the words of his childhood tormentors so long ago.

He did not have a place in this universe.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to my friend morgan for co-writing this chapter even though she didn't know she was

_Four years later._

***

Spock stood from his desk as the minute turned, straightening his black uniform and picking up his PADD before exiting his office, the door closing behind him. He navigated through hallways and up stairs to his intended classroom, and walked through the door seconds before class was scheduled to begin.

“Good morning, cadets,” he greeted, taking his place behind the front table and setting his PADD down on it, allowing it to sync with the display screen at his back. He looked up at the expected lack of response. Cadets in their first semester did not often respond, and especially not to a Vulcan instructor.

It was some comfort to be surrounded by humans who were looking to _him_ for how to appropriately react.

“Welcome to Introductory Principles of Computer Science. I am Commander Spock. Our schedule for the semester and the topics we will cover are listed in the syllabus, as well as my contact information and office hours. This course will be a mix of both theory and practice, and therefore will require the software suite I specified in the syllabus, as well. If you have not yet installed it, please do so before next class period.”

He looked over his students, counting them briefly in lieu of calling roll. There were indeed the correct number, and no faces he did not recognize from his roster.

“Are there any questions?”

His students attempted to look attentive while not meeting his eyes, some scrolling through their syllabus, others simply looking anywhere _but_ at him.

One, in fact, to his right of the room, seemed to not be paying attention at all, engrossed in something on his PADD that was obviously much more than simply scrolling through a document.

Well. He was not bothering other students, so it was no trouble to Spock.

“Then let us begin.”

He detached the stylus from his PADD and began lecturing on the visual scripting language they would be using that semester, his writing on the device in front of him echoed on the larger display for the class. He did not look up from his notes, though he was well aware he was discouraging questions. He did not see the point in taking them in the middle of lecture, as often the answer was either irrelevant to the subject matter, or would later be revealed in the rest of the course. If questions arose, they could be asked at the end of class.

He did not need to look up when he heard a distinct, muted _thump, thump_ , to know who had just quite superciliously rested their feet on their desk. There was only one cadet who Spock would guess had that temperament, and the location of the noise offered further evidence supporting his conclusion.

“Cadet Kirk,” he said towards his PADD, continuing to draw a diagram as he recalled the name from his roster, “Forgive my ignorance of human customs, but I do believe that is a desk, not a footrest.”

The cadet laughed.

He laughed, loud and genuine, the noise filling the small room.

Spock looked up.

The cadet lifted his head up to look at him, his blue eyes narrowed with amusement. He did take his feet off the desk, but slowly and pointedly, each one audibly hitting the floor in turn, eyes never leaving Spock’s.

“ _Sorry_ ,” he said, with an expression that was anything but apologetic. Spock could feel the tension in the air—not between the two of them, but emanating from the other cadets, some of whom seemed to be waiting for something with baited breath. A grand reprimand, perhaps, for interrupting the Vulcan’s lecture.

Spock did not feel the need to deliver one. He simply nodded in acknowledgment of the apology and returned to his PADD, continuing where he left off easily.

It was only minutes later when he was interrupted again, though Cadet Kirk had taken to doing nothing more disruptive than twirling his stylus in his hand, occasionally dropping it.

A message appeared on the corner of his screen. It would not show up on the larger display, but he closed it quickly anyways, not welcoming the distraction. It was not quickly enough, however, to prevent him from noticing three details: that it had been sent to his private inbox, one that he allowed only select few in his life access to; that it was sent from an address his system did not recognize; and that the shortened version of the message that displayed on the notification contained the phrase “ _pointy ears_.”

His breath caught, and his stylus trembled as his grip tightened. He attempted to continue his lecture without pause, but could not tell how successful he was at that task. Though he had more than sufficient mental capabilities to split his attention between two tasks equally, it took substantial focus to calm his heart rate to its normal pace.

His reaction was illogical, as he did not have full evidence to support the worst-case scenario that his autonomic system was responding to. But that did not prevent the conclusion from coming to mind.

Someone had tracked down his personal information, and then used it to send a message containing a phrase that had been used as a derogatory epithet towards him in the past. There were many possible motivations for such a behavior, and nearly all of them were cause for alarm.

He would not allow it to affect him. He would _not_ allow it to affect him. He focused all of his conscious energy on the task at hand, and managed to finish the lecture without further incident, opening up for questions at the end.

The cadets provided him with silence. This was the point, his internal script reminded him, to inform the students that if they did have questions later, he was available during office hours and through campus e-mail. However, he did not think he was, at the moment, capable of delivering the reminder with enough of a friendly air to encourage them to contact him.

The need to speak not only accurately but with correct intonation, much of which was unknown to him, was a constant irritation, and he could not mask that irritation in his already heightened emotional state. His “Dismissed,” came out clipped, sounding so even to his untrained ear, but he was simply grateful to be finished.

He allowed the students to exit first, in the interests of avoiding a crowd. Generally he would listen to their conversations as they exited, as they provided valuable feedback on how to structure his course, but this time he focused instead on briefly reviewing his notes and disconnecting his PADD from the display screen, not sparing any focus to the mumble of conversation fading out the double doors.

Someone approached him, one of their scattered shadows falling across the table.

Spock frowned. This was his fourth semester teaching at the academy, and never before had a student come to speak to him after class on their very first day.

He looked up, and was unsurprised to find that it was Cadet Kirk standing in wait, a smile hanging on his face as if he had forgotten it was there.

“Hey, Mister…Mr. Spock? I wanted to talk about this class, I went to administration already but—”

“Commander Spock,” he interrupted, turning back to his PADD, “is the correct form of address, and if you have academic matters to discuss you may visit me during my office hours.”

On another day, he may have regretted the harsh dismissal, but his ability to deter humans from socializing with him did occasionally prove useful. The cadet would leave, likely thinking less of him, but he would be free to return to his office and address the issue at hand.

Except he did not leave. He stood there, until the last of the other cadets had left the room, and then said, “Are you…okay?”

Spock stared at the table. He had been competently keeping his emotional reaction at bay until that phrase reminded him of everything that had transpired, as well as the shame he felt at having such a reaction to it at all.

“I will see you next class period, Cadet.”

He hovered for a moment longer, but finally decided to turn away, leaving Spock alone.

He allowed himself a deep breath in the quiet of the empty room, and then returned to his office.

***

He scanned the message for malware before opening it, but it was, in actuality, just a simple text file. Still, he switched his PADD to his personal login just in case, protecting any Starfleet Academy records from potentially being accessed.

It said this:

_so those pointy ears really do have superhuman hearing huh_

_i always heard vulcans dont have a sense of humor but you seem pretty funny. Have I been lied to this whole time or are you just special_

_JTK_

Spock stared at it.

JTK. All of the evidence pointed towards James Tiberius Kirk who, from what Spock could surmise, held absolutely no ill will against him.

He had gone through the trouble of discovering his personal messaging address simply to…relieve boredom.

He sighed, sitting back in his chair and allowing his anxiety to pass through him, quickly giving way to relief at the mundanity of the message, and then a certain curiosity.

A student in his _introductory_ class had, presumably, known enough about Starfleet’s security and data handling to retrieve this address. Spock could not, in fact, immediately imagine a suitable method to do so.

He would need to speak to Cadet Kirk further about this subject.

He would also need to file a consideration for demerit. Clever or not, boredom did not excuse violating the privacy of a Starfleet Officer.

***

Spock had office hours three times a week, for two hours, beginning at 8:00.

It struck him as the logical choice, seeing as there were so few things scheduled at that time. It allowed students maximum opportunity to meet with him without conflicting with other commitments.

It was the beginning of his third semester teaching that one of his fellow instructors suggested that the timeslot was, in fact, actively discouraging students from seeing him, as there were very few willing to wake up at that hour unless strictly necessary.

He did not reschedule. If the cadets did not see his physical presence as strictly necessary, then they were free to contact him through digital means. He found he greatly preferred this to face-to-face communication, and encouraged it.

Still, there were, occasionally, cadets that rose to the challenge, and he could not say he was particularly surprised that Cadet Kirk was one of them.

He could also not say he was surprised that the cadet’s preferred method of waiting on him was sleeping on the couch at the beginning of the hallway that housed his office.

Spock arrived at 7:50 the next day to find him lying there, hands clasped behind his head which was turned sideways in order to utilize his elbow in blocking the already soft light of the hallway.

Spock watched him for a moment before speaking.

“Cadet Kirk.”

The cadet did not move—but he did speak, his voice muffled by his current position.

“This is the part where you tell me this is a couch, not a bed.”

Spock’s eyebrow rose unconsciously, the expression pointless as its recipient’s eyes were currently closed. “I have seen many cadets sleep here. It is undoubtedly a quite versatile piece of furniture.”

This statement was evidently worthy of his attention, as he turned his head to look at Spock, expression…questioning, but also concealing a smile.

“Are you here to speak to me,” Spock continued, “or have you simply decided this area is more comfortable than your dormitory?”

“There it is.” The cadet pointed at him, almost accusingly, and finally rose from the couch, straightening his uniform. “You _are_ funny. I almost thought I dreamt that part up.”

Spock stared at him. He was not sure how to respond to that…accusation. Cadet Kirk seemed pleased with the conclusion, despite a tone of voice that suggested otherwise.

He had also never been called ‘funny’ before. He had more often been accused of the opposite.

“So,” Cadet Kirk said, inclining his head downwards and raising his eyebrows. “I got up after you asked if I’m here to talk to you, which means, yes, I’m here to talk to you.” He held an arm out, gesturing down the hallway. “After you, Commander.”

Spock considered him for a moment, but simply decided to lead him to his office, unlocking his door with a wave of his ID card. He may have felt patronized at the cadet’s verbal contextualizing of his actions if the explanation had not proved to be presently useful.

“You may sit,” he said, indicating a chair in front of his desk as he took his place behind it, setting his PADD aside. The cadet sat. Generally, he would spend these ten minutes before his office hours preparing for the day, but it seemed more prudent to address the matter at hand.

“I assume the reason you wish to speak to me is that you consider yourself already in possession of the knowledge that will be covered in the elementary computer science course. Am I correct?”

Cadet Kirk opened his mouth, left it for a few moments, and then closed it, frowning. “Uh...yep. Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”

Spock nodded. “I see where you may have come to that conclusion, considering your aptitude for...” he chose his words carefully. “Systems infiltration. But as I mentioned, this course will cover not only the practical aspects of programming, but the theoretical and historical aspects as well. It is not--”

“What theoretical and historical aspects?” Cadet Kirk interrupted, leaning forward. “Quiz me.”

Spock frowned. He did not appreciate being interrupted.

“For _example_ ,” he continued, “Starfleet’s code of honor, which, among other things, forbids the collection of an unwilling participant’s private information. If nothing else, Cadet Kirk, that section of my class will prove valuable to you if you wish to continue with Starfleet.”

The cadet exhaled, frowning. “Alright, I’ll come to that week of class and write a paper over it or whatever. But I _know_ the rest of it, it’d just be a waste of time. I mean, no offense, but...” He paused, and then smirked, as an idea seemed to occur to him. “You had to take this class your first semester here, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“How was that for you?”

Spock stared at him, expression impassive, hiding the memories he had of excruciating boredom, the feeling of sitting through class after class having to actively search for material he found interesting, most of which was merely glanced over.

“...describe a Turing machine and its importance to modern computation,” he said.

A grin slowly spread over the cadet’s face.

“Well, it’s--the idea was a machine that could read and write symbols off a tape, but it’s not really a physical machine, more a model of computation that set the basis for all the programming we do today. You know--read a symbol, and depending on what it is, write something and go left or right. I think Turing came up with it in...” He squinted, turning his eyes towards the ceiling and biting his bottom lip in consideration. “1940’s? 1950’s? Around there.”

“1936,” Spock corrected. “However, your answer is essentially correct.” He considered the other sections of his syllabus. “What technological advancement necessitated a complete restructuring of network security, and for what reason?”

“You’re talking about quantum computing, right?”

Spock nodded.

“Okay. Well, basically all security up until then was based around the fact that it was almost impossible to do prime factorization on big numbers using strict binary computation, but with quantum computing it knocked it down to polynomial time and...fucked everything up, basically. Thanks Shor.”

“Ineloquent, but correct.” He was beginning to consider requiring Cadet Kirk to continue in his course simply for how amusing his answers to short answer questions were bound to be. It would be a welcome respite to the general monotony of grading. “In terms of the set P versus NP, what does NP stand for, and what is its definition?”

Cadet Kirk’s expression fell, and for a moment Spock thought that he may have touched upon a section of knowledge that the cadet was lacking.

“Dammit,” he said, quietly, “you’re gonna make me say it. Okay, it’s...” he held a finger up, closing his eyes, and then spoke very carefully, “ _Nondeterministically_...polynomial.” He opened his eyes, and grinned. “Right. It basically means that if you generate an answer to a certain problem, there’s an algorithm that can check whether the answer you generated is right in polynomial time, but there isn’t a polynomial algorithm to find the best answer. You just have to generate random ones and check them.”

Spock raised an eyebrow.

“I believe you will be bored in many computer science classes to come, Cadet Kirk,” he said.

“Yeah? So what about this one? You gonna make me suffer through it?”

Spock considered him carefully. The administration of the academy no doubt had their reasons for not allowing Cadet Kirk to receive credit without completing the course, but he demonstrably had advanced knowledge of the subject.

“If you attend the first two weeks of the course,” he said, leveling him with a steady gaze, “write a paper over Starfleet’s expectations and honor code, complete two projects, and sit for both the midterm and final, then I will excuse you from all other lab work, assignments, and attendance requirements.”

Cadet Kirk squinted at him appraisingly, but then nodded, once. “Deal,” he said, standing. “Thanks, Spock. I owe you one.”

“ _Commander_ ,” Spock reminded him, as he walked to the office door.

The cadet turned back to look at him. “I mean…not _yet_ ,” he said, face impassive. Spock’s eyebrows drew together, and he had just opened his mouth to correct him when Cadet Kirk grinned, and winked, and walked out of his office.

Spock frowned at the doorway.

This cadet was certainly…interesting.

***

“Commander Spock!”

Spock stopped in the hallway, turning towards the voice. It was familiar, but not immediately placeable—thankfully, he did recognize the person walking towards him, a smile on her face.

“Cadet Uhura,” he greeted. “Do you require my assistance?” He had only had her in class two weeks thus far, but was already beginning to appreciate her presence there.  She had an excellent ear for the tonal qualities of alien languages, and applied herself to each assignment with a characteristic vigor, unafraid to make the mistakes required in order to fully master a language.

It was a trait Spock admired, and could admit a small degree of envy towards.

“I might,” she said, tilting her head up at him and placing a hand on his upper arm only briefly. There was a certain playfulness to her actions that Spock, for once, recognized, his ears growing warm before he could suppress his reaction. “I’ve always been interested in the Vulcan language. Will you be offering any courses on it?”

He began walking again, slowly, and was pleased he had managed to broadcast his intentions clear enough that the cadet followed him unhaltingly. “There will be a section on its parent language family in our current course,” he said. “However, as nearly all Vulcans speak Standard as naturally as our own language, Starfleet does not place high priority on teaching it.”

“Hm.” Cadet Uhura’s gaze was pointed straight ahead as she considered his words, but she soon turned back to him with a smile. “What about private tutoring?”

Spock’s grip behind his back tightened. There was a correct way to phrase his next question, and a very, very incorrect way—and he was not entirely confident he could discriminate between the two.

He chose his words carefully. “May I ask,” he began, looking towards her, but not directly making eye contact, “what your intentions are regarding this request?”

The silence that fell between them stretched too long for his comfort. But, the ebb and flow of human conversation often did.

“I do want to learn Vulcan,” she assured him. “But I also want to spend time with you.”

“There are romantic connotations behind your request.”

“Yes,” said Cadet Uhura. “There are.”

Though the reality of her answer was a point of concern for him, he appreciated the steadiness of her reply. Many humans, he had come to learn, would have balked at the fact he requested clarification.

“Then I must decline,” he said, watching the hallway in front of his feet. “I have no interest in entering into a relationship with a student who is under my instruction.”

“What about students who aren’t under your instruction?”

It was a valid question--and indeed one he had hoped to avoid, as he could not confidently say what the answer was.

“I have not given it much thought,” he said, truthfully. He looked at the cadet, to find her still smiling amicably, even after his rejection. He blinked, somewhat taken aback.

“I can’t really argue with that,” Cadet Uhura said, laughter in her voice. “So that’s a no to going out with me, but what about tutoring? Is that still a possibility?”

“It...is a possibility,” he said. “If you truly wish to study Vulcan, I will discuss with the administration what avenues there are available to us.”

“Thank you, Commander.” She touched his arm again, close to where she had before. “I really appreciate it.”

“It is no problem.”

He watched her leave, ponytail waving behind her, and he felt somewhat...dazed. He had assumed this semester, and this year, would advance similarly to the previous one, with the added advantage of being more familiar with his role as a professor at the academy.

He was beginning to think that his assumption was incorrect.

***

 _Subject:_ FWD: Notice of Demerit

_Language: Federation Standard, and something else entirely_

_Content:_

:/

JTK

Original Message:

\--------

Cadet Kirk,

This is official notice of a demerit being affected against your file for the reason or reasons listed below:

Unauthorized access to the personal information of a Starfleet member. Violation of Starfleet Academy honor code.

Please note that three demerits on your file will result in disciplinary action being taken, including the possibility of expulsion from the academy.

-

 _Subject:_ Request for Clarification

_Language: Federation Standard_

_Content:_

Cadet Kirk,

It is fortunate you have discovered my official Starfleet messaging address.

May I request clarification on the meaning of “:/”?

Commander Spock.

-

 _Subject:_ No

_Language: Unclear_

_Content:_

:///////////////////

JTK

***

Spock still, at times, took his meals in the academy’s cafeteria.

It felt irresponsible, in some manner, to insist upon eating in his office when he still had much to learn about human social rituals, so many of which were exhibited quite clearly during meals. It was an excellent opportunity to observe them without specifically eavesdropping, and his status as both Vulcan and Professor was a sufficient deterrent to most people seeking to invite themselves to his table.

However, it should be noted that “most” did not mean “all,” and he was surprised to find that his meal marked the third time in only a month that a cadet approached him outside of class.

The difference being, he had no recognition of this one from any of his courses—this semester or those previous.

The cadet simply sat down across from him, indelicately placing himself in his chair and setting his plate down, all while scowling at the table, seemingly unaware of Spock’s presence there.

He found himself unable to do anything but stare, perplexed, at his visitor.

The man settled, moving his plate into a different position, took a drink from his glass, a bite of his food, and then another drink before finally speaking, though still not meeting Spock’s eye.

“So,” he said, “you’re the Vulcan that Jim won’t stop going on about.”

Spock belatedly realized that he had not moved from his position since the cadet had sat down, and that he was holding an eating utensil in midair. He set it down. His bemusement quickly faded at the cold emotion that was crawling up his spine at being referred to as “the Vulcan” by a human.

“Pardon me,” he said, gaze holding steady. “I do not believe you and I are acquainted.”

“Right, where are my manners.” His tone of voice was anything but polite. “I’m McCoy, Jim’s self-appointed babysitter.”

Jim. This cadet used the name as if it were someone Spock should know about, but he could not immediately place it. Given its length, it could easily be a shortening of a different name, but that was yet another human practice that he had not grasped yet.

Cadet Kirk appeared behind the other cadet, holding two plates of his own food. “ _Traitor_ ,” he whispered to McCoy, before sitting down next to him and beginning to eat with no acknowledgement of Spock.

“You’ve been pouting about this all damn week. Kiss and make up already.”

“ _Bones_ ,” Cadet Kirk said through his teeth. His face was beginning to turn a particular shade of pink. He seemed to be making spectacular usage of single-word conversational replies.

But what was the significance of the word “bones” in this context?

“Hey, I’m not _making_ you sit here.”

Was “Jim,” in fact, short for “James”? It seemed redundant to have a single-syllable shortening of a name that was already a single syllable, but all of the context he could glean pointed to that conclusion.

He decided to test his hypothesis.

“Jim?” he asked, and was immediately rewarded with Cadet Kirk, who had not acknowledged him since sitting down, looking up to meet his eyes.

His pupil dilation was clearly evident against the blue of his irises. Perhaps Spock had startled him.

The cadet only watched him for a moment, wide-eyed, but soon schooled his features, deciding on a smirk, eyes narrowing.

“Commander,” he responded. So his hypothesis had been correct. What an odd naming convention.

“Have I done something to upset you, Cadet Kirk?”

“Oh, are we back to ranks now?” he said, as McCoy muttered, “This one’s a piece of work.” Cadet Kirk extended an arm to hit him in the chest, not lightly, and said “Shut up, Bones,” before turning back to Spock. His…friend, was perhaps the right word, seemed unruffled by the rebuke.

“Yeah, you kinda did,” continued the cadet. “I mean, you didn’t think I was going to be _happy_ about you filing a demerit, did you?”

Spock tilted his head in question. “It was the least severe form of punishment I had available to me. I felt it to be in equal measure to the effect of your actions.”

“The effe—I sent you a _message_!” the cadet said, eyes wide again. “What exactly did I _affect_?”

He considered the question carefully. The most truthful answer contained information about his person that he did not wish to reveal; namely that he had at first misinterpreted the message after reading only a brief part of it, as well as the fact the mere phrase “pointy ears” was enough to induce a panic-like emotional reaction in him.

No. He could not admit that.

“It was the second time you had interrupted my lecture,” he decided on. “As well as the fact that I have to contend with the idea that whatever information you discovered is now yours to do with as you please.”

“Yeah, god forbid I send you another e-mail,” Cadet Kirk muttered, poking at his food for a moment before taking a larger bite of it than was strictly advisable.

“I cannot discount the possibility that the information may, at some point, change hands.”

The cadet looked up at him, eyebrows raised. “I’m not—” he started, but was interrupted by McCoy’s “My god, kid, were you raised in a barn? Swallow your damned food.”

Cadet Kirk made an odd face at him, but followed his instructions, taking a moment to chew first.

“Funny, people don’t usually have to ask me to swallow,” he said, smirking at his friend.

McCoy rolled his eyes, exhaling roughly, and Cadet Kirk turned his attention back to Spock.

“Anyways—I’m not gonna sell any of your info off, jeez. What kind of person do you think I am?”

“I do not currently know.”

The cadet stared at Spock, worrying at his bottom lip between his teeth.

“I promise,” he said, any hint of humor gone from his voice. “I won’t. Don’t worry.”

And Spock, inexplicably, found himself trusting him.

But he did not place his confidence in inexplicable feelings. There was also something he stood to gain from the cadet’s attempt to reassure him.

“I do not believe you,” he said. “However, if you find my trust important, there is a task you may complete that will help to convince me.”

“Sure. Anything,” the cadet agreed, immediately.

McCoy snorted at this, seemingly amused, which earned him another “ _shut up, Bones_ ,” Cadet Kirk’s attention leaving only briefly before returning to Spock.

He raised an eyebrow at the interaction, but decided against commenting on it. “Explain to me the method you utilized in order to exploit our system and gain access to my information, so that I may inform network security of what weaknesses to fix.” And satiate his own curiosity, as well.

The cadet drummed his fingers against the table for a moment, before saying, “Yeah, okay. Fine.” He picked up a utensil and began fiddling with his food again, as if it were unappetizing in some manner. “I don’t know if I can—I’ll send you a message, alright? It’ll be easier to explain.”

“That is acceptable.”

Cadet Kirk nodded, and Spock wondered if the two of them would leave, having apparently completed what they had come there to do—“kiss and make up,” as McCoy had phrased it, though Spock was under the impression that the phrase implied two people were friends in the first place.

Did Cadet Kirk consider him a friend?

Was that the reason he had reacted so strongly to Spock filing a demerit? Had the message been sent in some kind of confidence?

It did not seem likely, but Cadet Kirk had thus far proved to be anything but an average individual.

The two cadets did not leave his table. They remained, conversing mostly between themselves but occasionally including Spock in the conversation, mostly for reasons he did not quite understand.

It was nearing an hour later when they finally did leave, having well finished their meals and citing the need to catch up on coursework.

The table seemed too quiet with them gone.

***

The front entrance to the building that housed Spock’s office opened into a wide and spacious lobby, an arching wall of windows extending all the way up to the third floor where it met with the more solid ceiling of the northern wing, the nearer hallways of which were exposed to the lobby as balconies, cadets visible as they came to and from classes.

There were seating areas arranged near the base of the windows, rows of tall tables and chairs next to the wall and circles of couches further into the lobby, though well out of the way of the main walkway.

Cadet Uhura was seated on one of these couches, hidden by the shadow of the stairs in the late afternoon, PADD in her lap and feet tucked underneath her as her shoes lay on the floor in front of the couch. There were three other cadets seated with her, conversing about something that Spock could not make out from where he was.

There was something he wished to inform her of. It would save him the time of composing a message, but he was not sure how to approach her, as she was engrossed with her friends.

He took the chance and approached her nonetheless.

He attracted the attention of the four of them before he even spoke, his presence enough of an interruption in itself.

“Good afternoon, Cadets,” he greeted, sweeping his gaze over each of them before specifying, “Cadet Uhura,” and turning his attention to her.

“Commander Spock,” she returned. “How are you?”

“I am well, thank you,” he recited. “I have received word from the administration regarding a course focusing on the Vulcan language. They are not opposed to my instructing of one if there is sufficient student interest—five is their suggestion.”

The cadet grinned at him. Thankfully, it seemed this news was a welcome interruption.

“So if I get four other cadets to sign up, you’ll teach it?”

He nodded, and she bounced in her seat, seemingly moving to get up before deciding otherwise. “I would hug you if I didn’t think you’d be really uncomfortable,” she said, instead.

Spock raised an eyebrow, thankful for her consideration, if surprised. “That will not be necessary,” he confirmed. “I look forward to having you in further classes.”

Once he had resumed his walk to his office and the cadets had wrongly guessed he was too far to hear them, they began goading Cadet Uhura, beginning with a chorus of “ooo” sounds and then questions about what, exactly, happened during Spock’s office hours.

She laughed, and dismissed them, suggesting they return to their homework.

He did his best to ignore the implications.

***

It was raining.

The steadily increasing rumble of raindrops against the roof of the library was enough to make the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It did rain on Vulcan, of course, but almost never to this degree. Such a torrential downpour would cause floods and landslides—their modern architecture was meant to withstand such disasters, but the part of his physiology that remained mostly unchanged from his ancient ancestors was intent on warning him of the danger.

There was no danger to be had in San Francisco. It was simply rain.

Still. He had spent enough time in the library, and the storm only seemed to be getting more severe as time went on. He carefully shut the book he had been examining and placed it back in its case, the door hissing as it sealed shut.

He descended the stairs lightly and with only slightly more haste than he normally would have, retrieving his coat from a closet near the front door and then reaching for his umbrella—

Which, he now realized, was not where he had left it.

He looked around briefly and, not finding it, walked to the front desk.

“Pardon me,” he said to the robotic assistant, its head turning towards him after what was no doubt a carefully calculated pause. “My umbrella is missing from the coat room. Do you know who took it?”

“How long ago did you arrive?” it asked.

“93 minutes.”

“Let’s see.” It turned to a monitor in front of it and was still for a moment, before turning the monitor around to face Spock, displaying three umbrellas reclining in the coatroom. “These are what I recognize as umbrellas that both arrived and left in the last 93 minutes. Are any of them yours?”

“Yes. The rightmost one.”

A video appeared on the screen, first of an empty coat room, then someone walking in and picking up Spock’s umbrella. They didn’t simply leave, however. They took a moment to turn directly at the camera and mouth “ _sorry_ ,” shrug, and walk out.

Spock recognized him immediately, and stiffened.

“This person left me their location on campus with an instruction to inform the owner of that umbrella of it.”

“Ah,” said Spock, flatly, frown forming on his face. “How kind of him.”

***

It had not been raining as hard when he left.

That is how he attempted to justify his actions to himself as he arrived at the residence hall, coat tightly wrapped around him, hair clinging wetly to his forehead, and scowl forming almost uninhibited on his face.

His mood was dropping steadily as the cold rain seeped into his socks. Thus it was with no delicacy that he pounded his fist onto the door three times, and did not offer a polite greeting when it was answered.

“Cadet Kirk,” he said through his teeth, jaw both set in irritation and to keep from chattering.

The cadet was dressed only in an undershirt and boxers, his hair flattened on one side and eyes squinting as if he had just woken up, and was now subsequently in question of what he was seeing.

“You will no doubt be unsurprised that the appropriation of another’s property is cause for demerit. That is two in a single semester, and I can conclude from previous behavior that you will likely incur a third one, as well. Though generally they are only grounds for moderate disciplinary action, such quick accumulation may indicate to Starfleet that--”

“You look like a drowned cat.”

Spock’s scowl slipped into a mild frown at the interruption, confusion moving to replace the frustration that had been fueling his diatribe.

“Right,” continued Cadet Kirk, looking him over. “Continue lecturing. Just...come here, for a second.” he walked away, hand gesturing indistinctly in the air, and disappeared into his bathroom.

Spock stood in the doorway, hesitant to breach the threshold. He was now slowly coming to realize just how uncomfortable it was that his uniform was clinging to his skin, seeping away any warmth he was attempting to generate.

The cadet appeared again, now wearing a pair of sweatpants and holding a towel in hand. “…I don’t _bite_ ,” he said.

“I am not familiar with that idiom.”

“It’s not entirely…” he paused for a moment, and then shrugged. “Okay, I guess it is an idiom. I will bite, if you ask nicely.” Spock was not entirely sure why someone would ask to be bitten, though it was not hard to conclude that, from Cadet Kirk, it was meant to be a sexual reference. “It means you’re avoiding me as if I’m a snake or a spider or something that you’re afraid is going to bite you, but your fear is completely unjustified. So c’mere.” He waved the towel at him.

Spock considered him briefly, and then stepped in, the door closing behind him. The room was dim, the lights off and the windows set to a low transparency.

Rather than simply hand the towel over to him, the cadet chose to sling it over Spock’s head and begin drying his hair himself.

It smelled mostly like the sterile cleanness of the academy’s washing machines, but there was a faint scent that clung to it that he recognized as Cadet Kirk’s.

It was a decidedly…not unpleasant experience. However, he did not take kindly to being approached without his consent, and took the cadet’s wrists in his gloved hands and pulled them away from his head, slowly but firmly.

“Thank you,” he said, letting go. “However, I am capable of drying myself.”

“Oh, right,” said the cadet. “Sorry, I’m used to…well, sorry.” He did not seem particularly apologetic, though it was not said in a sarcastic tone, either.

Spock nodded, and ran the towel over his hair, his face, his neck, finding a modicum of relief with each area that he dried. He opened his eyes to find Cadet Kirk staring at him, considering…something, a forgotten smile hanging halfway on his face.

The cadet reached a hand out and brushed it over Spock’s bangs, presumably straightening a stray hair.

He allowed this. But he could not suppress his reaction when the cadet’s fingers fell too far and made even the barest contact with his skin—his breath caught and his eyes widened at the emotional transference that occurred; the briefest moment of perplexity and amusement and—

It had been nearly two years since he had last made physical contact with another person. He had not realized how deeply he yearned for it. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to take the cadet in his arms and hold him close, to feel the ebb and flow of purely human emotion complimenting his own.

He stepped away, attempting to quell the urge by returning his focus to the discomfort of his current situation.

Cadet Kirk pulled his hand back. “You okay?” he asked.

“No,” said Spock. “Being rained on is a decidedly unpleasant experience.”

The cadet laughed, though it was more nervous than amused. “Yeah,” he said. “Sorry about that. I didn’t know that umbrella was yours. I mean, I probably would’ve taken it anyways, it’s not like I…I don’t know. You look miserable, do you want me to put your uniform through the dryer for you?”

Spock frowned. “If you are attempting to escape punishment for your actions, it will not work.”

“Heh.” The cadet’s mouth quirked sideways in amusement. “Uh. Yeah, no—you can file a demerit if you want, I don’t really care. Seeing you like this is way worse.” He turned around and went to his dresser, pulling drawers open and digging through piles of clothes. “Here.” He procured sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt, and walked over to offer them to him. “You can wear these while it’s drying. They should fit. I mean, you’re kinda tall…”

Spock took them, uncertainly. He did not think he would be comfortable wearing someone else’s clothes, and especially not in this style. But he was presently reminded of the alternative.

“You can change in the bathroom, if you want.”

“…thank you,” he decided, and went to go do so.

It was…odd. The fabric was an unfamiliar texture to him, especially compared to the close-cut and sturdy academy uniform. But after peeling that chilled fabric off of his slowly numbing skin, the worn softness was welcome.

Though it did not change the fact that he had not been provided with socks, and he could not recall wearing anything before that had such an open collar. He knew, logically, that he was appropriately dressed, but could not help feeling as if he were not so.

He stared down at his feet, no warmer now against the tile floor.

Was this normal? Cadet Kirk offering extra clothes to him was logical and…kind, but he could not see that it was within the sociological boundaries he had observed in his years on Earth.

Cadet Kirk seemed to ignore many of them. And yet, he had at least one close acquaintance at the academy, so his behavior was not as repulsive as Spock’s seemed to be. Spock himself was drawn to him, despite--or perhaps because of--his oddities.

It was a fascinating phenomenon. Perhaps he would take care to investigate it further.

He stepped out of the bathroom, carrying the wet bundle of his uniform.

“I can take that,” Cadet Kirk offered. Spock handed it to him, and the cadet went to his closet to place the clothes in a small dryer.

He seemed to be avoiding eye contact, or even looking at Spock at all. Spock watched him carefully as he went around his room busying himself, putting books back on a shelf and dusting a few things off that did not have much dust on them in the first place.

There was an emotion hanging in the air that Spock could nearly identify when he turned his attention to it. Whatever it was, it did not make him feel unwelcome.

The back of the cadet’s neck was red.

“So,” said Cadet Kirk, after an extended silence. “What’ve you been up to?”

“Other than my usual professorial duties, I have been working on improving the code for one of the academy’s simulated performance tests, as well as attempting to schedule a class on the Vulcan languages, at the request of a student.”

“Huh. Didn’t know you take requests,” said the cadet, seemingly to himself as he sat down at his desk and began doing something on his PADD. “Vulcan…I might have to check that out.”

“It may be a welcome challenge.” The cadet snorted, apparently amused at his statement. Spock tilted his head. There was something frustrating about the fact that the cadet would not look at him. “And you, Cadet Kirk?” he asked. “I am curious as to what you have been doing instead of providing me with the explanation I had requested.”

He finally, finally looked up at Spock, though his expression was one of confusion and affront. “Explanation?” he asked. “What—oh!” His eyebrows flew up, and he straightened in his chair. “I completely forgot. I’ll do—I’ll…I’ll start on that now.”

Spock watched him for a few minutes as he became increasingly engrossed in his task. He enjoyed, somehow, noticing the cadet’s unconscious habits; the way he curled around his PADD, worried at his lower lip, never kept his feet still, either tapping them or repositioning them frequently.

He turned away. He could not fathom why habits that should annoy him were somehow endearing in this particular cadet.

No—that was not the entire truth. There was one possible explanation, but it was not one he was eager to consider. He had not been merely seeking for an excuse when he had informed Cadet Uhura about his dislike of the idea of entering into a relationship with a student. The power imbalance repulsed all but his most base desires, and those were not ones he would ever consider indulging.

So he would not think on it.

He walked slowly around the room instead, looking over the few items hung up on the walls and the various ones lying on the floor. As he did, a half-formed thought rose to his consciousness, suggesting that something was missing. He looked around more purposefully, taking in the entire room, and noticed that he did not see an umbrella.

This was more unsettling than he expected it to be. The memory of his soaking uniform was all too recent.

“Cadet Kirk,” he said. The cadet looked up at him, hands still poised over his PADD. “Where is my umbrella?”

“Oh,” he said, softly. “I…let someone borrow it.”

Spock’s eyes narrowed. “Who is borrowing it?”

“I…don’t know…?”

“You let someone borrow my umbrella, but you do not know who that person is.”

“Yeah,” said the cadet, stretching the word out into a grimace. “Y’see…I had it. But I saw someone out in the rain with a book under their jacket trying to keep it from getting wet, and I thought, what a waste of a book, so I gave it to them without really thinking…but, I’m sure they’ll bring it back.”

“They do not know who you are,” stated Spock.

“Well…no, probably not.”

“So they will not know where to return the umbrella.”

“…no. Probably not.”

Spock closed his eyes, briefly, letting out a breath. “I do not believe there is much nobility in offering aid at the expense of another party.”

“Anyone ever tell you you get sassy when you’re mad?” The cadet’s mood seemed to have improved as Spock’s worsened. “Anyways--I’m sure I’ll see them again at some point. I’ll just get it back then.”

“And what is your suggestion for my walking home without an umbrella?”

“Hm.” The cadet turned back to the PADD, tapping at the edge of it idly. “I could borrow one from a friend and walk you there. She lives on the next floor up, I bet she’d be okay with it.” He glanced up, head still tilted downwards. Spock noticed for the first time how long his eyelashes were.

“That is...adequate,” he decided, though he had some anxiety regarding telling a cadet where he lived. It was illogical. Cadet Kirk had not yet betrayed the trust he had placed in him, willingly or not, and regardless of that, the cadet demonstrably had the skills necessary to discover the information on his own. There was no harm in Spock benefitting from the revelation as well.

“Great,” the cadet said, suddenly jumping up from his chair. “Let’s go see her.”

***

His friend was an Orion, who answered the door in a loose T-shirt and presumably shorts, though Spock could see no evidence of their existence.

“Hey,” she greeted, before looking over at Spock.

Recognition dawned on her face, and she stared at him for a moment, before looking down at his clothes, and then back up again.

“...Commander,” she said, smirking slowly as she came to herself. She turned back to Cadet Kirk. “So, what can I do for you, and your...?”

“Professor,” he said, his face flushing pink once again. Was the cadet ashamed to be seen with him? No--or else he would not have suggested his accompanying him in the first place. Then what was the source of his embarrassment? “Just...professor. Yeah, do you have an umbrella I can borrow for...” he glanced at Spock for a split second. “Like, an hour?”

She followed his gaze, her eyelids dropping a miniscule amount as she looked at Spock again. “Depends what you want it for.”

“I--” said Cadet Kirk, grimacing, “what? Where were—no. _Walking_ , Gaila, _in the rain_.”

“Hey, I’m just making sure.”

A voice carried in from the direction of the bathroom, calling, “Who’s at the door?”

A voice that Spock recognized immediately.

“It’s James Kirk and that pointy-eared professor you like,” Gaila called back, throwing her head over her shoulder.

Cadet Uhura appeared from behind the bathroom door, her hair wrapped in a towel. Her expression upon seeing Spock was at first surprised and then—inexplicably—angry. Spock tilted his head in question as she scowled and disappeared behind the door again. Had he done something to offend her? Her reactions had never been left unexplained until now.

“Hm,” said Gaila, dismissively. She returned her attention to the two of them. “Maybe I do have an umbrella. What’s in it for me?”

Cadet Kirk dropped onto one knee and took her hands in his. “The moon,” he said, smiling.

Spock could not faithfully categorize his emotional response as anything but jealously. He dropped his eyes from the display, berating himself silently. He had been away from Vulcan too long. He would need to take more time for meditation.

Gaila pulled him back to his feet, laughing. “You’re such a drama queen, Kirk.”

“Yeah, but you love me anyways.”

“I do,” she said, sighing. “It’s terrible.”

She turned and walked back into the room, Cadet Kirk somehow knowing not to follow her, instead staying where he was and clasping his hands behind his back. He rocked back and forth on his feet slightly. He looked, notably, anywhere but at Spock.

Gaila soon returned with an umbrella in hand. The cadet reached out to grab it, but she held it back, tilting her chin up and raising her eyebrows.

Cadet Kirk spared Spock the barest of glances, a brief emotion he could not identify, before placing his hand on Gaila’s back and pulling her forward to kiss at her neck, then her jaw—Spock looked away again, until he heard the cadet say “Thank you,” and Gaila hum appreciatively.

“Anything for you,” she said, and sent the two of them off with an enigmatic “Good luck” and a wink to Cadet Kirk in particular.

They left the dorm room at a noticeably quicker pace than they had arrived, the cadet fiddling with the handle of the umbrella.

“Are you and Gaila in a relationship?” Spock asked. He had never understood the purpose of idle small talk, but it was not difficult when he harbored a genuine curiosity.

“Oh—uh, no,” he answered, focused on descending the stairs. “We’re just friends. She’s like that with everyone.”

“Your reciprocation indicates you act similarly with your friends, as well.”

He shrugged. “I mean…if they ask nicely.” He finally looked over, his gaze lingering as if he were searching for something. There was a smudge of lipstick on his mouth—the metallic silver that Gaila had been wearing.

Spock watched the color shift under the light as Cadet Kirk drew his lip between his teeth. He wondered if the cadet was aware of this habit.

“How…generous of you,” was the response Spock decided on. The cadet smiled, turning to open his door.

“Well, I happen to have an unlimited supply of kisses,” he said, leading him into the room. “Your clothes should be about dry by now. Where am I taking you?”

***

There was a neighborhood on the edge of campus that had appeared in the academy’s early days, contractors no doubt wishing to capitalize on the flood of students coming to San Francisco in the aftermath of the Federation’s founding. Since then, the academy had bought out the area and rented the houses out to older students at a reasonable price, generally offworlders who likely would not be familiar enough with Terran customs to procure housing of their own.

Spock had been immensely grateful to move into one of the thin, single-bedroom homes after three years in a residence hall. It was within reasonable walking distance from his office, so he did not often lament his lack of personal transportation. When he did, it was almost always due to rain.

They walked in peaceable silence to his house. Or, at least, Spock considered it to be peaceable. He was deep in thought considering the implications of his emotional responses while Cadet Kirk walked next to him, seemingly content to hold the umbrella over them and observe the dripping scenery.

It was not raining as hard as it had been when he had left the library. He was thankful, at least, for that.

“This you?” was what the cadet broke the silence with when Spock turned to walk up to his residence.

“Yes.” He stepped onto the porch, and Cadet Kirk lowered the umbrella, looking around at what little of the house he could see from under the overhang.

“Looks cozy. Is it one of those self-sustaining models?”

“Indeed it is.”

“Cool. Cool…” The cadet glanced around, too fast to be examining anything in particular this time. “So, um…” he tapped the umbrella against the porch, rain droplets falling off it, and met Spock’s eyes, mouth hanging open as if to continue his sentence. But he did not. He closed it, after a short time, and looked down at his feet. “Well. Bye, I guess.”

“I will see you later, Cadet.”

“Yeah. See ya’.”

He left, eyes on the ground as he did so, frowning intently.

Spock watched him until he could not anymore.

He was sorely in need of a cup of hot tea.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Holiday. Happy something

Cadet Uhura did not speak to him before, during, or after the next class she had with him. He avoided calling on her for pronunciation exercises, attempting to be considerate of her change in mood. But the next class period, her behavior continued. Curiosity and a small measure of concern won him over, and he approached her at the end of class as the other cadets were gathering their things to leave.

“Cadet Uhura,” he said, standing at the table she was sitting at. “Do you have a few minutes to speak with me?”

She stood, looking up at him. “Yes, Commander?” Her tone was formal and clipped.

“I have noticed you have become withdrawn in this course. As I find your input valuable, I would like to right this, if at all possible.”

She pursed her lips at him, considering, before turning around and looking at the other cadets still lingering in the classroom. “Can we not talk about this here?”

“Wherever you would like, cadet.”

She grabbed her PADD and strode out the door, Spock following a pace behind. She chose a nearby hallway which lead to a dead end, currently unoccupied except for a single plant in the corner.

“I can take rejection, you know,” she said, whirling on him. “You didn’t have to _lie_ to me.”

Spock raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I do not recall ever lying to you.”

“You don’t date students? I know for a fact that Kirk is signed up for one of your classes, _Commander_.”

“Ah,” he said. “You suspect that Cadet Kirk and I are in a relationship?”

“Unless you have another explanation for why you were wandering around our residence hall wearing his clothes.”

“I do.” Though he was momentarily at a loss for how to phrase the story without further embarrassment. “Cadet Kirk had stolen my umbrella from the library. I made the…perhaps, inadvisable decision to confront him, and walked to the residence hall while it was still raining. He offered to dry my uniform, and provided me with his clothes as a temporary measure.”

Cadet Uhura stared at him, eyes narrowed.

“You went to tell him off, and he put your uniform in the dryer for you?”

“He is a perplexing individual.”

She laughed, though when she turned away, her eyes were glistening. “Sorry,” she said, brushing a tear away. “Just—this is the second time I’ve made an idiot out of myself in front of you.”

Spock frowned. “Cadet Uhura. I can assure you I have nothing but respect for you, as well as your abilities as a xenolinguist.”

She stood there sniffing, her arms crossed, for nearly half a minute before turning to Spock, her eyes cast downwards. “Thanks,” she said. “I should probably get to my next class.”

He stepped aside and allowed her to pass.

He was thankful for their conversation, in a way. It had redoubled his convictions to avoid pursuing Cadet Kirk while he was still under his instruction.

The reminder may have been entirely necessary.

***

Cadet Kirk fulfilled his obligations to the letter, sitting for both of his exams and doing passably well, which was impressive considering his lack of knowledge as to what specifics the exams would cover. Spock let him through his class in good conscience.

It was not in good conscience, however, that he found himself continuously checking the number of students enrolled in his Vulcan language course. Cadet Uhura and Cadet Kirk were the first to enroll, and one other followed after them. But three was not enough for the academy to justify Spock spending his time on a course.

He did not know whether or not he wanted that number to reach five. He would enjoy teaching about his home planet’s language, especially to Cadet Uhura, who seemed to have a genuine love of the subject. But it was possible that the mere fact Cadet Kirk was off limits to him—so to speak—increased his appeal. Maybe it was not that he found the cadet so genuinely intriguing, but that the mind had an illogical but ever-present desire towards that which it did not, or could not, have.

Perhaps if the cadet was not enrolled in his course and therefore became, theoretically, available to him, his desire would fade, along with this turmoil of emotions that came with it.

He did not know what he would do if it did not.

***

Their winter break was always a welcome respite. Though as a professor he still had obligations towards preparation for the next semester, his social obligations were almost none, so he was able to complete his work in peace. Though often he came to find the solitude lonely rather than calming, the excitement of the previous semester had left him looking forward to recuperating.

It was not as if he did not have plenty to do out of his own curiosity. His study of humans, Terran in particular, had turned into ongoing and likely never-ending research. He berated himself for ever thinking it may have been otherwise. There were books to read, movies and plays to watch, music to listen to—the mere task of deciding what media held a high priority was extensive in itself.

Many humans were eager to cite works or artists that they considered influential to humanity as a whole; Shakespeare, Beethoven, Leonardo Da Vinci—these were all common suggestions. But more than understand the broad development of humanity, he wished to understand what most influenced the generation he had been interacting with. He found it difficult to get humans to list what media they had consumed as a child or a young adult, most of them finding it unimportant. On the contrary, Spock found it massively important. Human usage of language was partially reference-based. If he wished to understand the language, he was required to understand the culture it had formed in.

It was a daunting task, but he found it enjoyable, despite the impossibility of its completion.

When he had tired of human culture for the day, or simply wished to relax, he often found himself taking meditative walks. Though the winter climate was uncomfortable at its warmest, he enjoyed wearing the layers of heavy clothing necessary to insulate himself. The weight was a small reminder of the gravity on Vulcan, and he found it comforting.

The academy campus was almost serene without the usual population of cadets walking through it. It was never completely deserted, as they offered some courses during the break and there were offworld students who elected to stay, but compared to mid-semester, it seemed remarkably empty.

Spock found himself walking through the middle of campus, on a path that ran between trees that would have cast mottled shadows on him if their branches had more than the sparsest of leaves. The wind had died down for once, and he pulled his scarf down off his face to breathe in the cool air.

The world was still. He stopped, listening to the quiet rustle of what leaves there were.

It seemed for a moment as if he were the last being left on Earth.

That illusion was quickly shattered as he heard quiet footsteps from somewhere far behind him, and he took a deep breath to ground himself back in reality.

Then he noticed the footsteps were behaving…oddly. They had been approaching him steadily, but they stuttered to a halt, and then, soon after, began approaching him quicker, and heavier.

He turned towards them, trepidatious, and recognized the grinning face of Cadet Kirk, who waved when he noticed Spock was looking at him.

This did not ease his trepidation. It did, however, introduce a mix of other emotions, so he was not entirely sure whether he wanted to stay and talk to the cadet or dismiss him as quickly as possible.

“Hey—hi,” Cadet Kirk greeted, twice, once he had approached, red-faced. “Man, am I glad to see you, Spock. This place is a ghost town. I feel like I haven’t seen another human being in years. Well—another person, sorry.”

“Cadet,” Spock said, both as a greeting and a reminder, though he was not entirely sure who it was he sought to remind.

“Aw, come on.” The cadet struck his hand against Spock’s arm in what seemed to be a friendly manner. “It’s break. Call me Jim.”

“Starfleet regulations do not stop applying simply because you do not have classes.”

“Sure, but…who’s gonna tell?” He raised his eyebrows at Spock, leaning forward and looking expectant, and Spock considered his point. Evidently, he did not consider fast enough, because the cadet…Jim. Jim righted himself, and shrugged. “Call me whatever you want, I just thought I’d extend the invitation. You headed somewhere?”

“I am returning home,” he answered, and then tilted his head at the connotations he recognized in the question. “Are you requesting my company?”

“Sorta.” He glanced away for a brief moment. “I mean—yeah, I am. I thought…well, I’m just out on a walk, maybe I could join you, but you probably don’t want me following you home. Again.”

“I am out on a walk, as well,” Spock said. “You may join me, if you wish.” He had not had much social interaction recently, either, and did not think there was much harm in indulging Jim for the small amount of time it would take to return to his house.

The cadet grinned unabashedly, delighted by the offer. “Really?” he asked. Spock nodded, and continued walking. Jim followed alongside him. “Thanks.”

“It is not a problem.”

They walked in silence for a ways, which brought Spock a measure of surprise. From what he knew of Jim, he was not one to shy away from conversation, but he currently seemed content to walk quietly and examine the grounds, hands in his pockets and smiling absentmindedly.

Spock was generally content with silence, as well, but he had had plenty of it in the past few weeks. Additionally, this was a welcome opportunity to practice human social skills and he found himself, for once, not concerned about committing an error.

“It is my understanding that it is human tradition to return to a family home during the winter. For what reason have you remained here?”

“Oh. Uh…” Jim reached up to scratch at the short hair on the back of his neck. “My family was never really big on that sort of thing.” He looked at the ground for a moment, and then shrugged, looking up at Spock. “My brother and my mom are both off-planet, my step-dad’s a jackass, and as the entire Federation apparently knows, my real dad’s dead. There’s not really anywhere to return to.”

Spock nodded in acknowledgement. “Then it is sensible to remain here.”

Jim exhaled, apparently amused. “That’s probably the first time anyone’s ever called me ‘sensible’. What about you? Skipping out on any Vulcan solstice rituals?”

“It is not currently winter on Vulcan,” he reminded him.

“Oh. Right. Planets. Sorry.”

Spock raised an eyebrow in question at the oddly phrased response, but decided against commenting directly. “Seasonal rituals are not a significant part of planetary Vulcan culture,” he said, instead. “However, my mother does hold them in some importance. This scarf, for instance, is one of the Hanukkah gifts she provided me with this year.”

“Hanukkah,” Jim repeated back to him, slowly, a frown forming on his face. It seemed to be one of confusion. “I didn’t know…I mean…are there Vulcan converts to Judaism?”

The temperature seemed to drop as Spock came to a thoroughly unsettling realization. His entire young life had been shaped by the fact he was both Human and Vulcan, or perhaps neither Human nor Vulcan—he was somewhere between the two, and all those around him treated him in relation to that fact. He had assumed, without even realizing he had, that those on Earth would view him similarly.

He was wrong.

Jim considered him fully Vulcan. It was the first time in his life he was aware of being viewed as such.

He could easily choose to allow him to believe such a thing. It would be a simple omission of certain truths, and, in fact, Jim had no right to such personal information, if Spock did not wish to share it.

But it would not be honest. It felt disrespectful to Jim and, more importantly, a slight towards his mother, whom he had always sought to defend from such things.

“Sorry,” said Jim, breaking what Spock suddenly came to be aware was a stretching silence. “Did I say something stupid?”

“You did not,” Spock answered. “There are…many facets of the Vulcan species that are not widely represented in the normative planetary culture. Though I do not know of any examples, it is likely there are some Vulcans who have converted to a human religion. My mother, however, is not one of them, as she is…human, herself.”

“Oh.” Spock looked over at Jim, finding himself searching for any reaction he could recognize. His expression remained the same, a concentrated frown that drew his eyebrows ever closer. “That’s pretty rare, isn’t it? You don’t hear about Vulcans marrying a human every day.”

“It is exceedingly rare. To my knowledge, I am the only Vulcan-human hybrid currently in existence.”

Jim suddenly stopped where he was. Spock took one step beyond him, and paused, looking at the ground. The anticipation of Jim’s reaction was almost paralyzing, which was…illogical. He was anxious to know Jim’s expression—putting himself in a position where he was unable to discover it was counterproductive.

He turned around, hands grasped almost painfully at his back.

Jim’s frown had turned into a slack-jawed stare, pointed directly at Spock.

“Wait,” he said, “Is your mom _Amanda Grayson_?”

The line of his shoulders relaxed in his utter surprise. “Yes. She is.”

“Like, the universal translator Amanda Grayson?”

Spock nodded. “She has contributed a great amount of work to its development.”

“Holy fuck,” Jim said, quietly, putting his hands over his mouth. “I’ve read her _papers_. I’ve read— _everything_. Did you know—of course you do, she’s your mom. But—holy _fuck_ , Spock, no wonder you’re so smart!”

At his words, something inside Spock came undone.

It was similar to when they had made contact, when the briefest moment of the cadet’s emotions left Spock realizing he had been longing for that connection for longer than he knew. This was another thing he did not know he needed. The confirmation of what had always seemed contradictory to him—that his human genetics—his human _mother_ , that he had so long been taught to be ashamed of—were not a defect that others were meant to simply tolerate. It was half of who he was as a being, and along with its challenges came an equal number of benefits. That it was not meant to be tolerated, but celebrated.

“You attribute my intellect to my human mother?” he asked, almost nonbelieving. It took great effort for his voice to come steadily.

“Well. Yeah.” Jim’s tone was unsure, though his words were not. “I mean, I don’t really know about your other parent, but Grayson is kind of a genius. You’d have to be pretty stubborn for that to not rub off on you a little bit.”

Spock nodded, slowly, looking away even as he was aware of Jim staring at him, examining the hints of an expression that he was not able to hide.

“Are you okay…?”

He swallowed, thickly. “Yes,” he said. ‘Okay’ had variable definitions—it was not a lie. He reached over and placed a light touch on Jim’s shoulder, hoping the action would be enough to startle him out of pursuing the topic further. “Let us continue.”

He began walking again and, after a short delay, Jim followed him.

***

They arrived at his front porch again. The ascent up the few steps brought with it the memory of the last time the cadet had followed him home, and Spock was grateful he was dry this time, if still cold.

He turned to look at Jim, and the cadet dropped his gaze.

“So, uh,” he said, scuffing the heel of his shoe against the porch. “Guess I’ll…see you around?”

“Jim.”

The name had the desired effect, the cadet looking up at him, eyes wide and expectant.

“You may come in, if you would like.”

A grin slowly pulled at Jim’s face. “Really?”

Spock just raised an eyebrow, not wishing to answer what may have been a rhetorical question. He opened the door, and Jim followed him inside, however hesitantly.

The front door of his house lead to a small area containing the door to a closet, a staircase to the left, and a short hallway to the right that lead into a living room and kitchen area, separated by the counters and the cabinets. Generally, he found the space excessive, but with the addition of a single person, the foyer suddenly seemed…exceedingly personal.

He opened the closet and draped his scarf over a hook on the inside. Jim similarly started removing his layers, though it seemed he only had a light jacket to hang up.

Spock had already taken one glove off and folded it into his pocket out of habit before realizing that Jim was staring. He paused, hand over his other glove. He had not removed them around another person in years--the possibility for unwelcome emotional transference was too great.

Around Jim, however...

He slid his glove off, and similarly returned it to its pocket, then removing his coat and hanging it up.

“I am going to make tea,” he stated. “Would you like any?”

“Depends what kind it is.”

“I have a variety.” He walked to his kitchen, Jim following closely behind.

He opened a cabinet near the stove and pulled out a plastic tray of teas, organized as well as he could manage given the variances in container type and size. He set it on the counter, and Jim leaned over it.

“Woah,” he said. “That’s a lot of tea.”

Spock raised an eyebrow at him, though it went unnoticed as the cadet pulled out a few bags of tea, examining them closely. “This seems safe,” he said, holding one out to Spock. “I’ll have this one.”

Spock took it and nodded, picking up one of the unlabeled tins--an import from Vulcan--for himself and placing the tray back in the cabinet, getting out two mugs instead. “Is there a possibility that one of these varieties may be _un_ safe?”

“Yep,” said Jim, sitting down at the small table on the opposite wall. “I have some pretty nasty allergies to a lot of stuff, so I try not to get too close to anything I don’t recognize.”

“That is...logical.” He turned on his electric kettle and waited the fraction of a minute necessary for it to bring the water to the correct temperature before pouring it into both of their cups. In that time, Jim had already risen from the table and was now peering out of the large glass door that provided the light for most of the kitchen.

“Not much of a view, huh?” he remarked, in reference to the proximity of his neighbors. Each of the houses had a very small lot that served as a backyard, most of the residents utilizing it only to store smaller vehicles. Spock did not utilize it at all.

“How do you take your tea?”

Jim turned to look at him, somewhat surprised. “Oh, I have no idea,” he said. “Just point me to the sugar and I’ll fix it myself.”

The mere mention of sugar was enough to make Spock feel mildly nauseous. “I do not have sugar. Will honey be sufficient?”

“Sure, why not.”

They both fixed their tea, Spock watching with interest as Jim blew over the surface to cool the liquid before taking a careful sip. His mouth was...attractive, in a way Spock could not entirely quantify. He was certain he had seen other humans with similar features, but he had never found any quite so intriguing. The tips of his fingers almost seemed alight with the desire to run across his lips.

He looked away, face heating in a manner thoroughly unrelated to the steam rising off his tea. He had not anticipated the consequences of inviting Jim into his home. As they were now in a thoroughly private space, there was one less barrier present to the enacting of his desires.

But he would not. He could not, given their circumstances.

Except, perhaps, if he were invited to.

“So what have you been up to?”

Spock looked over, but Jim did not meet his eyes, thoroughly transfixed with his tea. “Other than taking walks, I mean.”

“I have been preparing for next semester’s courses, as well as studying popular Earth culture.”

This caught the cadet’s attention. He looked up, a smile forming on his face. “Oh, yeah?” he said. “What sort of stuff have you been _studying_?”

Spock raised an eyebrow, not entirely certain of the implication behind Jim’s statement, though he felt there may be one that was not obvious in the literal meaning of it. “I have been watching television shows and movies that those around me have cited as influential to their childhood development. My sample size, however, has been considerably small.”

“You’re definitely the last person I would’ve guessed would spend their entire break watching TV.”  He turned and looked at the television, then walked to the living room, placing his cup on the coffee table.

Spock followed him, stopping in the divide between the kitchen and living room.  Jim, after a brief moment of searching, picked up the remote, and looked back at Spock.

“Do you mind?” he asked, waving the remote at him.

“I do not.”

“Cool.”

Jim turned the television on, and navigated to the list of recently-watched shows. At the moment, all of those that featured at the top of the list were animated.

He turned to Spock, grinning. “Cartoons?”

Spock tilted his head. “Yes,” he said. “I find them informative, especially given my tenuous understanding of human concepts of humor.”

“Huh,” he said. “I never really thought about what the human race might look like through kids' shows.”

“Quite fascinating, I assure you.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.”

He chose a show from the list and played it, flopping down on the small couch and removing his shoes.

Spock watched, intrigued, as he suddenly came to understand the phrase “to make oneself at home.” Jim seemed wholly comfortable in a house not his own, and was certainly breaking many of the rules that Spock had learned regarding how to be a proper guest.

It was comforting, in a way. His disregard for human social rules left Spock feeling less pressured to conform to them.

He walked over and sat down next to Jim, holding his tea carefully to reduce the chance of spilling it. The cadet’s posture was in stark contrast to his own, Jim having curled up against the arm of the couch, feet tucked underneath him and mug cradled in his hands.

He looked…comfortable. Like he was meant to be there. Spock found that the idea of Jim visiting more often was a pleasant one.

“Y’know, if you need a local expert on hand, I’m free to watch cartoons with you basically anytime.”

Spock blinked at the sudden verbalization of his exact thought. He looked over, and Jim was grinning at him, mug held close enough to partially conceal his mouth.

“That would be…informative. Thank you.”

Jim shrugged. “Hey, no problem.”

He found, however, that word ‘informative’ was not sufficient to characterize his interactions with Jim. He took a drink of tea while he calmed the nerves that were arising despite his best efforts. It was not that he thought the cadet’s reaction would be negative; rather that he was thoroughly unsure what that reaction would be.

“I have also come to enjoy your company,” he admitted, watching carefully for the response.

Jim blushed, tingeing a slight pink and grinning, again, though his focus seemed to be mostly on his tea. “Yeah,” he said. “I…I like you, too, Spock.” He fidgeted for a moment, bringing a hand to the back of his neck and glancing around, but soon settled, turning his attention back to the television.

Spock did, as well. It was interesting to watch the show with the added input of Jim’s reactions, whether he laughed, or grimaced, or, at some satisfying moments, looked just as confused as Spock was. It did not provide many answers about the facets of human society the show described, but he found he had more questions that may lead him closer to understanding.

Once Jim had finished his tea and finally set the mug down on the table, Spock stood and picked it up, taking both of their dishes to the kitchen. “Oh, uh, thanks,” Jim had said, apparently surprised by the action. Spock just nodded. He was, in fact, relieved to have the chance to leave the room for the moment. Jim’s presence was…stifling, perhaps was an accurate word. He wanted simultaneously to leave and to be closer. The careful distance he was attempting to keep between them was too much.

Or, maybe, not enough.

He rinsed out both mugs contemplatively before he placed them in his dishwasher and dried his hands. In the small time that had taken, Jim had moved away from the couch. Spock had been watching him out of his peripheral vision as he had wandered around the living room, examining the few items Spock kept on display. He had now settled against the counter, leaning next to the entrance to the kitchen, once again transfixed by the television.

Spock walked back to the living room as the credits began to play—right as Jim’s attention lapsed and he turned the corner into the kitchen, resulting in the two of them meeting abruptly, only not colliding because Jim’s reflexes had placed his hands on Spock’s chest, keeping them that scarce distance apart.

They froze.

The moment was tense, a swarm of emotions clouding Spock’s head and seeming to weigh on his chest, so much that he had no way of telling whether they were his own or Jim’s, seeping into the air between them, or perhaps a mix of both. But rather than stay frozen, or flee, which every instinct in Spock was battling between, Jim found it in himself to…relax.

His hands remained on Spock’s chest, but his shoulders fell, and his expression changed from surprise to something unreadable.

It was not hard to follow his lead, especially as curiosity arose and apprehension gave way to anticipation.

“Hey,” said Jim, softly, expression now recognizable as a smile.

Spock tilted his head. “Hello?” He was not certain what the correct response was, but he felt that staying quiet could be too easily misinterpreted.

Jim’s smile widened, and Spock found that he did not care whether he had responded correctly or not. “Is this…” He removed his hands, but only to alight them further upwards, placing them briefly on Spock's collarbone and then, finally, under his jaw, making contact with the skin above his high collar.

Spock inhaled sharply at the contact, eyes closing at the transference of emotions that mirrored so closely his own.

Jim removed his hands. Spock meet his eyes again and, seeing uncertainty, put his own hands over Jim’s and guided them back in place.

“Please,” he said. “Continue.”

The smile returned, and Jim’s joy at this permission was prominent.

“Vulcans can read emotions through touch, right?” he asked, settling his hands in a position to run his thumbs along Spock’s cheekbones.

“That is correct.”

“So, can you…can you tell how badly I want to kiss you right now?”

Spock’s eyebrow twitched slightly upwards, as he was conflicted as to what to do with this information. Could he consider that an invitation? “You have confirmed my suspicions.”

Jim laughed, lightly, and Spock could easily connect the stilted cadence with the nervousness now emanating from him. Had he not yet communicated his willingness clearly enough?

Very well. He would make it unmistakable.

He leaned forward, closing the distance between them, pausing briefly to allow Jim ample time to turn away.

It was unnecessary. Jim guided him forward the last few centimeters and kissed him, gently, once more curious and searching, though Spock could not say what for. Each time they parted, however briefly, Spock found himself wanting for more, and Jim was consistently pleased to provide. He placed his hands on Jim’s waist, if only to feel his reaction, though Spock could not truthfully claim the emotions were wholly Jim’s. He felt…comforted. Joyful. Appreciated. Though the physical stimulus was pleasant, it was more than that, with Jim, in stark contrast to—

A wave of anxiety surged through him at the unwelcome reminder of the first time he had engaged in this particular activity, and Jim pulled back, eyes wide.

“What was _that_?”

Shame crept in at the lapse in his mental shielding, and he took Jim’s wrists, guiding his hands away before he could be made any more aware of his declining emotional state.

“I apologize,” he said, keeping his expression carefully neutral. “I should not have allowed that to affect you.”

“No, it’s okay,” Jim said. He moved to return his hands to Spock’s face, but when he was not allowed to, Spock’s grip tightening against him, he let them fall to his side, instead. “I just…are you okay? Did I do something? Something wrong?”

“You did not.” It seemed he had let his happiness impair his judgment, as now the reality of the situation was again becoming apparent to him. Jim— _Cadet Kirk_ —was still a student, very possibly _his_ student, and…they did not want the same thing. It was disheartening, only becoming aware of what he wanted alongside the realization that he could not have it.

He wanted Jim alongside him. He could not bear the thought of being someone whose company he forgot the moment he left it. But that was what Jim did. He was happy to provide his company to anyone who requested it. While Spock could not find fault in that, he also could not be one of many.

“I…” He was at loss for words. He could not send Jim away in good conscience, but the thought of explaining his hesitation was equally unappealing. “I…require time to think.”

Jim’s declining mood was clearly evident in his expression, so far removed from only moments ago. “How much time?”

“I do not know.”

The cadet’s gaze fell to the floor, and he put his hands in his pockets. “Yeah,” he said. “Guess I’ll…see you later, then.”

“Goodbye, Jim.”

He left.

***

He stopped going on walks around campus. He tried to convince himself that he was not specifically avoiding Jim, rather that there were more interesting places in the city than the academy grounds he saw so often, but he knew that was not the case. He could not bear to face him. He had resigned himself to fading from Jim’s memory rather than remain around him and have the constant reminder that he, in the end, was not good enough.

The cadet could have anyone, after all. It would be illogical for him to settle for Spock, if he wished to be with one person at all. Spock was...if he could be called human, a subpar one. He did not understand the majority of social norms. He would not know how to perform in a human relationship and provide for Jim the measure of affection he desired.

It was only logical.

He would endeavor not to think on it any longer.

***

A total of four cadets registered for his Vulcan language course. It was removed from the registry.

***

The beginning of the spring semester brought a measure of relief from his thoughts. There was work to be done, and more students to get to know and learn how to teach, enough social rules to navigate every day that he did not have time to consider his personal concerns.

Though he could not help but feel a sense of disappointment when the first week of class did not inspire any students to approach him, about school or otherwise. While the attention had the potential of making him uncomfortable, the connections he had made the previous semester were...satisfactory. Cadet Uhura was focusing in xenolinguistics and therefore would be attending many of his classes. It was comforting to have a student, for once, who did not find him frightening. And Jim had been a valuable friend, while their acquaintanceship had lasted.

Jim.

It was Monday on the second week of the semester, and he had not spoken to Jim since their...meeting. Despite his best efforts to suppress it, he still felt hope occasionally that the cadet would reach out to him, instead. Messages to his personal inbox still contained a sense of anticipation, and the resuming of his office hours presented yet another opportunity for reconnection. However, it remained untaken.

He did not blame Jim. It was Spock who had requested to be left alone, and the cadet was merely complying with that request. If anything, he should have been thankful that he was finally free from his insistent attention.

But he was not.

He allowed himself a quiet sigh in the privacy of his office, and returned to his work, looking over his cadets’ lab work from their first assignment. Grading them was a significant challenge, despite the simplicity of the code the students had written. Correcting it required some basic understanding of the student’s thought process, so finding the mistake and writing a comment explaining their error sometimes brought a small sense of accomplishment.

There was a knock at his door.

He startled, his posture straightening the barest amount. He was not expecting anyone.

He stood up and walked to the door, opening it. His first reaction to the visitor was a sense of disappointment, as a hope he did not know he was holding was let down.

The second reaction was...not easily identified.

“Dr. McCoy,” he greeted, head tilting almost subconsciously. “May I help you with something?”

“Sure can.” He nodded towards Spock’s desk, and then walked in, ignoring Spock’s presence in the doorway. He found himself stepping aside. “Sit down, we’re having a talk.”

Spock raised his eyebrows, but decided to humor him, taking his seat at his desk and turning to face the cadet, who was now seated across from him.

“What the hell did you do to Jim?”

Spock frowned. Dr. McCoy frowned back.

“I do not believe I have done anything to him. I hope you will enlighten me if that is not the case.”

“Oh, yeah? ‘Cause he’s been sulking for about the past month, and hasn’t said a word about you recently, which believe me, is odd behavior.”

Spock stared at him, not entirely certain whether he was disheartened by this news or...pleased. He certainly had never meant to cause Jim grief, and did not feel happy about that. However, Jim had been affected by his actions. He was not, apparently, an insignificant person in his life.

“If the blame for his current state lies on myself, then I apologize. I did not expect my absence to affect him so greatly.”

“Your absence?” Dr. McCoy echoed, scowling. “Alright, I’m gonna ask again, and you’d better think real carefully about it this time. What the _hell’_ d you do?”

Spock folded his hands over his desk. “I simply...” he looked down, considering how to phrase the event without compromising on either his or Jim’s privacy. “Told him I required time to consider the nature of our relationship.”

The cadet sighed, deeply, leaning back in his chair. “And you haven’t talked to him since.”

“That is correct.”

McCoy ran a hand over his face, and then pulled his chair forward, allowing him to lean on Spock’s desk, as well. “Alright,” he said. “We’re gonna do this, but keep in mind I’m doing it as a favor for Jim, not for you.” He leveled a gaze at Spock, expression settling into one of almost neutral curiosity. “What’s got you so scared, Spock?”

He raised an eyebrow, slowly. “You do not seem to be considering that this is an exceedingly personal matter.”

“Oh, I considered it.”

“Then you will understand why I do not wish to discuss it with you.”

“I understand. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna let you off that easy.”

Spock frowned, deeply. Dr. McCoy seemed to be unaffected by his ire.

“Listen, I’ve been a doctor for a good few years now,” he said, leaning forward. “I know a thing or two about confidentiality. Not a thing we talk about is leaving this room, unless you go and decide to tell Jim about it, which I sincerely hope you will.”

“What are your intentions, doctor?”

McCoy seemed almost amused at his question. “Intentions?” he repeated. “Well, I intend to figure out whether you’re worth Jim’s time or not, then either convince you to stop hiding or convince Jim to get over it.”

“And you consider yourself solely qualified to decide?”

“Listen, if this were all about me, I wouldn’t even be here. Hell, I could leave right now, if you really want, and you can go back to ignoring Jim and make my life a whole lot simpler. But I don’t think you want that. I sure as hell don’t want that, and I can bet Jim doesn’t, either. How much more convincing is this gonna take?”

Spock stared at him, considering. He could not entirely tell whether he liked this Dr. McCoy. He was certainly an abrasive individual, and irritating to argue with, but his frankness was reassuring. Spock did not feel like there were parts to this conversation that remained hidden to him—both the emotions and connotations were abundantly clear.

However, he still did not feel inclined to voice his deepest insecurities to him, despite the possibility of reconciling with Jim.

“Alright,” said Dr. McCoy, as Spock remained quiet. “You’re not gonna open up to me the first real conversation we’ve had. I get it. But I’m on a tight schedule here, so let me tell you something.” He leaned back, fingers on his right hand tapping against the arm of the chair as if they were usually occupied by something else. “I have a little girl back home. Her name’s Joanna, and she’ll be turning seven this year. That’ll make just about two years since I last saw her. See, me and her mom had a real good life together for a while, but medical practice takes a lot out of a man. I started drinking to relieve stress, or whatever horseshit excuse I came up with. Didn’t seem too bad at the time. There was no way I was gonna drink on the job, and the job was where I was all day. So I did it at home. Thing is, a little bit of drinking starts to seem like a lot when it’s all you’re doing around your three year old daughter. Her mom told me I’d better either start acting like a father or she’d leave and take Joanna with her. I was convinced I couldn’t handle work without drinking, and hell, I was probably right, since I wasn’t willing to talk to anyone about it. So I drank. Stupidest damned decision I ever made.”

His voice remained steady throughout the entire story, even as his eyes began to shine with tears. Spock listened attentively, at first curious as to the doctor’s intentions, then coming to understand. He was attempting to establish trust.

It was an effective technique.

“The only truly mistaken actions are those from which we do not learn,” he said, hoping to communicate an amount of sympathy.

“Yeah, well. I think I still got a little more learning to do.” He extended a hand in Spock’s direction, briefly, as if offering him something. “Your turn.”

Spock nodded. He found sharing this information much easier in terms of an exchange, rather than being merely one-sided. He sensed that his respect for this cadet would only grow the longer they were in acquaintance.

“I presume you are aware that I am only half Vulcan.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s the other half?”

“Human.”

“Huh.” The doctor raised his eyebrows as if this were an only mildly interesting piece of information. “Well, I am now. What’s this got to do with Jim?”

Spock looked at his desk as he attempted to phrase his worry. He had purposely not given much thought to it, and he did not like the idea of sharing unfinished conjecture.

“Jim is…a fascinating individual, and has many desirable qualities,” he began. “There are many who are attracted to him, and I believe he is aware of that fact.”

Dr. McCoy exhaled roughly. “A little _too_ aware, if you ask me.”

Spock raised his eyebrow, but chose to continue rather than respond to the cadet’s comment. “It is illogical that he would desire to pursue a relationship with an individual who has a limited understanding of human social behavior, given the breadth of his options.”

“Hmm.” Dr. McCoy narrowed his eyes enigmatically. “Tell me, Spock, one of your parents is Vulcan, and the other one human, right?”

“That is correct.”

“They still together?”

“They are.”

“They seem happy?”

Spock’s eyebrow rose yet again. “I have never been lead to believe otherwise,” he said. “Is there a reason for this line of inquiry?”

“Well, I’m sure not asking about your family life just for the hell of it. My point is, there’s a solid example right there of a human being happy with someone with a ‘limited understanding of human behavior.’ What makes you so sure Jim wouldn’t be perfectly fine, too?”

“My parents’ relationship formed under very different circumstances. There were diplomatic and intellectual gains to be had on either side. Furthermore, there are benefits to the company of a full-blooded Vulcan that I cannot provide.” The anxiety he had felt and then transferred onto Jim—that would have never happened had he possessed the emotional and mental regulation of a true member of his species.

“So what I’m hearing is, ‘cause you’re half-Vulcan, you’re not Human enough for Jim to be happy.”

“Simply put, yes.”

“But ‘cause you’re half-Human, you’re not Vulcan enough for him to be happy.”

Spock frowned at the encroaching feeling that his logic was not as sound as he had suspected. However, despite the dread that usually accompanied it, he found himself anticipating the doctor’s counterpoint. “More or less,” he said, carefully.

“Alright. So you lost a few things in the trade off. But what’d you gain from it?”

He blinked.

“You are asking what benefits there are specifically relating to my hybrid status.”

“E-yup.”

He tilted his head, staring at Dr. McCoy. His time on Earth had allowed him to accept and even appreciate many of his more human characteristics that he had previously been ashamed of, and he was always raised with the idea that his Vulcan upbringing would bring him success in life, but the idea that the mix of them, specifically, may result in some benefit…

It was not something he had ever considered.

“That’s what I thought,” Dr. McCoy responded to his silence, voice taking on a softer tone. “You’ve spent a whole lot of time thinking about what it means to be Vulcan, or what it means to be Human. Not so much about what it means to be you.”

Spock stared at his hands, lying folded on the desk.

An identity that, rather than being two halves of separate and irreconcilable wholes, was a single, complete whole, comparable only to itself.

“Here’s what I think, and feel free to correct me if I’m wrong,” he continued. “You’re scared because you actually want to try with Jim. You want this to work out, which means if it doesn’t—if you try your best and everything still goes to hell—then that’s the final nail in the coffin. Proof you’re not good enough. Thing is, not working out doesn’t have to mean a damned thing. Sometimes two people just aren’t meant for each other. And if everything goes fine, well…” he shrugged. “You’ll probably be too happy to feel stupid about worrying in the first place.”

Spock nodded, slowly. “You mentioned that it was for Jim’s sake that you came to speak with me.”

“Yeah?”

“Then I would like to extend my gratitude towards him. His influence has been quite welcome.”

The cadet exhaled, amused. “Well I’ll be damned, you really do have a sense of humor.” He stood up and adjusted his uniform. “Tell him yourself. Make a decision, and whatever you do, Jim deserves an explanation.”

“I agree,” Spock said, inclining his head slightly. “I believe I will be seeing you soon, doctor.”

“Y’know what, I’m almost looking forward to it.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and a happy new year

_Subject:_ Finding one’s self

_Language: Terran-influenced Standardized Vulcan_

_Content:_

Mother,

I hope that all is well on Vulcan.

I admit I am not sure how to begin this letter. Much has transpired since we last spoke, of which I do not find myself inclined to speak of. But be content to know that I am doing well—better, I think, than my time as a cadet.

I may understand only now what you call a ‘human’ way of life. It is not intrinsically tied to being human, but instead the practice of defining oneself only in reference to one’s own experiences, rather than comparing to someone else’s. Comparison is a valuable tool, but it cannot provide a sufficient answer. There are certain things that can only be found introspectively, especially in one as unique as myself.

I have sincere appreciation for your advice. I must thank you for being an ever present support in my life.

With love,

Your son.

***

He was not certain when it was that he made up his mind, but he waited for the weekend before seeking Jim out. He approached the cadet’s dorm room at almost exactly 10 on Saturday morning, and knocked three times, his other hand held behind his back.

Dr. McCoy opened the door and, once he recognized Spock, smiled. Though whether he was happy or simply pleased with himself, Spock could not tell.

“Up and at ‘em, Jim,” he called, turning back into the room. “Get dressed. You’re going on a walk.”

“What?” came a disgruntled whine from the shifting pile of blankets on top of one of the beds. “Whyyy?”

Jim sat up, the top of the blanket sliding off of his head—dragging a portion of his hair forwards—and settling at his currently bare waist. He squinted towards the doorway, blinking a few times, until his eyes suddenly grew wide.

“Uh,” said Jim.

“Good morning,” said Spock. “May I speak with you?” He was finding it oddly difficult not to smile, despite his nerves. Jim’s current state was…endearing.

“Uh,” said Jim, again. “Five minutes?”

Dr. McCoy turned back to Spock, expression irritated, in some manner. “I’ll send him out when he’s ready.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

The door shut, and Spock stood back, occupying himself with the muffled voices he could still hear from within the room. He could not distinguish the mood of the voices, but it was simple to distinguish between the speakers. Jim was talking frequently. Dr. McCoy was not.

It did not take a full five minutes for Jim to appear again, stepping out of the room in his cadet uniform, hair passably combed.

“Hey,” said Jim.

“Hello,” said Spock.

Jim rubbed the back of his neck, glancing around the empty hallway. Spock’s face grew warm as he belatedly remembered the last time they had that particular exchange.

“So, uh,” started the cadet, kicking the toe of his shoe at the ground. “What’d you want to talk about?”

“I had hoped to discuss this with you in private. As your room is…occupied, do you have any suggestions for an appropriate venue?”

“Sure, yeah.” He began walking, waving for Spock to follow him. “There’s these study rooms upstairs, they’re usually empty. Don’t know why Bones didn’t just let us have the room, but…well, okay, I kind of know…” He turned his attention decidedly to the stairs as they ascended.

“’Bones’ is your name for Dr. McCoy.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Why?”

Jim shrugged. “Well, I started doing it ‘cause it pissed him off, but I think he likes it now. I called him Leonard once and he looked at me like I grew a second head.” He laughed, quietly and briefly, as if he had not meant to.

Spock tilted his head, attempting to make sense of the reasoning behind that situation. “I am not certain I understand,” he decided.

“I’m not really sure I do, either,” Jim said, opening the door to a bright, windowed room and allowing Spock to enter before following him, shutting the door behind them both. There was a window in the door, as well, into the hallway. “We could talk more about it after this discussion of yours, I guess.”

Spock nodded, folding his hands behind his back. “I would like to begin by apologizing.”

Jim frowned, and sat down at the table in the middle of the room. Spock pulled out a chair and sat across from him, carefully.

“Okay,” said Jim. “For what, exactly?”

“For leaving you so long without explaining my behavior. It was never my intention to cause you distress.”

“Huh.” He sat back, hands on the table, picking at his fingernails. “Well…that’s kind of exactly what I wanted an apology for, so I forgive you, I guess. But…”

Jim looked up, meeting Spock’s eyes, and there was an emotion hidden in them that was not reflected in his expression, only a slight frown. “ _Why_? What happened?”

Spock kept his gaze steady, even as his chest felt heavy. “I was abruptly reminded of a…an unpleasant experience I had had in the past. I believe I allowed my emotional state to affect my judgments without realizing, and assumed you would not be impacted by my absence. I realize now that my assumption was incorrect.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Jim mumbled, focused on his hands once more. “Thought you hated me, for a while there.”

“I do not,” Spock assured him. It was reassuring, in a way, to hear his assumption refuted by Jim himself, but he still did not know the exact nature of Jim’s feelings for him.

There was one way to find out, though it was proving to be astonishingly difficult to execute.

“Jim,” he said. The cadet looked up at him, eyes wide and, perhaps, hopeful. While Spock searched his next words, he idly wondered at what point the utterance of Jim’s name would stop eliciting such a response.

He hoped it would not be any time soon.

“Would you…” What was the logic behind these words being so difficult to find? It would be exceedingly more beneficial to them both if he was capable of speaking plainly.

He took a careful breath, steeling himself. “Do you have any interest in pursuing a committed relationship with me?”

Jim stared at him. He blinked, once. “Yes,” he said. “Like…a whole lot. A _whole_ lot of interest.”

“Oh,” Spock found himself saying. His mouth hung open, as if preparing to say something, for a long moment as he considered the emotions that very slowly and gently rose up within him. He felt almost…giddy. “I…find myself wishing I had asked much earlier.”

Jim grinned, and leaned forward, holding his hands out on the table, his smile not faltering when Spock only gave him a confused look.

“I wanna hold your hands.”

“Ah.” He was happy to oblige him, sliding his gloves off and placing his hands in Jim’s. The joy that had already been apparent now flowed between the two of them, and Spock could not help but smile, even if only slightly.

Jim, somehow, became even happier at the sight. “God,” he said. “Your smile is gorgeous.”

Spock attempted to simply enjoy the compliment, but he found he was not yet comfortable with such focus being put on his outward displays of emotion.

“The boundaries between human relationships are ill-defined,” he said, instead. “What do you consider us to be, now?”

Jim frowned, and Spock was saved the momentary worry by noting that there had been no large change in his emotional state. He was still happy, therefore it was a frown of concentration.

“In a relationship?” he said, uncertainly. “I think that’s how I’d put it if someone asked. I mean, _I_ still consider us friends, we’re just also…romantic partners, too.” He shrugged. “There’s a lot of words for it.”

“And what differentiates a romantic partner from a friend?”

His frowned deepened, and Spock felt a measure of uncertainty grow between them. “You ask some pretty hard questions, Spock.”

“I apologize if I have made you uncomfortable.”

“No, it’s fine.” Spock tilted his head, and Jim smiled at him, gripping his hands tighter. “They’re fun to think about, I just know you want an actual answer, and I don’t always have one. Human stuff is…yeah, ill-defined is a pretty good word for it.” He laughed, softly. “I don’t know about differentiating, but being in a relationship means you care about each other and you _take_ care of each other. Everything else is kind of negotiable. So if we’re doing something you don’t want to be doing, we can stop, and if we’re not doing something that you want us to, we can, y’know, talk about it and see if we can work it in.”

Spock watched their hands as Jim fidgeted with them, his calloused fingertips running over Spock’s.

“That is amenable.”

“Amenable. Yeah.” Jim smiled again, and pulled Spock’s hands a little closer. “Speaking of negotiating, I really badly want to kiss you again.”

Spock glanced at the window in the door. “I am not certain this room is sufficiently private.”

Jim followed his gaze, and Spock waited in fascination as he observed the many different emotions that were not apparent on his face. Disappointment, uncertainty, though all only underlying the persistent blanket of contentment.

“Well…could we go somewhere else, and then could I kiss you?”

He raised an eyebrow, certain for once that his amusement would be readily apparent. “Yes,” he said. “Will you be able to wait the walk to my house?”

“I can definitely _try_.”

***

Jim succeeded, though they did not make it very far past the front door before getting caught up in each other, eager but unhurried once they were there. There was still a feeling of caution and tentativeness, but Spock found it difficult to be nervous. If he made a mistake, he was certain Jim would be more than happy to allow him to try again.

He also discovered that the weight of a human in his lap was quite a rewarding experience when you had invited them to be there.

He would endeavor to explore this further.

***

_Subject:_ It is wonderful to hear from you.

_Language: Terran-influenced Standardized Vulcan_

_Content:_

My dearest Spock,

It has been quite a while since we last exchanged letters. I am both relieved and happy to hear from you, especially with, if I have not misread, such a joyful tone. Has something happened? Forgive my prying, but I am greatly curious to know what (or who) is bringing you such happiness. Whatever it is, I hope it will continue to do so.

It seems you have graciously given me credit for insight you have discovered yourself. I prefer your interpretation to mine. I have always seen you as wholly unique and wholly wonderful, but I have the advantage of being your mother. I understand that it is difficult to see yourself the same way. That it seems you are beginning to brings me immeasurable joy.

It is wonderful to feel so appreciated. I admit it is sometimes difficult to feel so on Vulcan, though I know it to be true.

I look forward to your response.

Love,

Your mother.

-

_Subject:_ Happiness

_Language: Terran-influenced Standardized Vulcan_

_Content:_

Mother,

I believe my previous letter’s tone was influenced more greatly by relief and anticipation. However, I would not object to the characterization of my current one as joyful. I am happy, mother. More so than I had truly thought possible.

There are those here who I have come to trust, and it is a great relief. There is one in particular who has brought me a great deal of happiness.

Would you like to speak with him? He has an appreciation for your work, and though he has not said so directly, I believe he has been looking forward to meeting you. It may allay your curiosity, as well.

With love,

Your son.

***

Spock found Jim in the cafeteria, eating his meal over a PADD, the content of which he seemed to be engrossed in.

He sat next to him, setting his tray down, and Jim startled.

“Oh,” he said, smile forming once he had recognized Spock. “Didn’t see you there. How are you? Classes going okay?”

“I am well, overall, though the most recent papers from my algorithms course have been especially perplexing. It seems many of my students have not grasped the basic principles of algorithm complexity. I have not yet determined whether the fault lies in my teaching or their attentiveness.” He nodded towards the PADD. “It appears you are similarly occupied.”

“Yeah.” Jim scrolled through the lengthy blocks of text on his screen. “We’re still talking about the formation of the Federation, and he gave us this paper to read about how the conflict between the Tellarites and Adorians shaped the circumstances that they joined the Federation under. It goes really in depth about the Tellarite honor and morality system, it’s really interesting.” He rubbed the back of his neck, turning slightly pink. “I mean, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “It sounds quite fascinating,” he said. “I will be curious to know what insight it provides you.”

“I’ll definitely let you know.”

Spock nodded, and took a few bites of his food, chewing contemplatively. He would need to seek out authentically prepared Vulcan dishes at some point in the near future. The replicated versions consistently left him wanting.

“As there is an overlap in our planetary days on Sunday, my mother and I have arranged a video call,” he said, as it seemed their previous conversation had run its course. “She has expressed an interest in speaking with you. Would you like to join us?”

Jim looked up from his food, eyes wide. “ _This_ Sunday?” he asked, voice strained.

Spock tilted his head. This was not the reaction he had anticipated. “Yes. Does that present a scheduling conflict?”

“Uh. No…” Jim set his fork down, continuing to look alarmed. “But. This is kind of sudden, don’t you think? Usually—okay, I guess you didn’t really have any way of knowing this, but usually the whole meeting-the-parents thing isn’t something that happens a few weeks into a relationship. More like months. Or…a year, I guess.”

“Ah,” said Spock, attempting not to reveal his declining spirits. He did not wish guilt to factor into Jim’s decision. “I apologize. I was not aware it was a significant milestone. Should I conclude that you do not wish to speak with her?”

“Well. I dunno.” Jim prodded his food unproductively. “I’m kind of conflicted, Spock. As a fan of her work, of course I want to talk to her, but as her son’s boyfriend, that’s…that’s kind of intimidating.”

“Intimidating?” He tilted his head, attempting to consider all of the reasons that may be the case. He found it exceedingly difficult to imagine one that had to do with her role as a mother rather than her status as a distinguished scientist. “I cannot imagine why that would be the case,” he admitted.

“That’s easy for you to say, you’re her kid,” Jim mumbled. “She’s _supposed_ to think _you’re_ perfect.”

“As the idea of perfection is highly illogical, I find it unlikely that she ascribes to that belief,” he said, before realizing the more important implication of that statement. “Does the intimidation lie in the expectation that she will find you somehow lacking?”

“Well, yeah,” he said, finally looking up at Spock again. “That’s kind of what parents do. Their kids bring boyfriends home and then their parents get all up in arms about no one ever being good enough for their children. Even if they’re too polite to say anything directly they get that look on their face like they’re judging every little thing you do, it’s…it’s really tiring.”

Spock could not reconcile the type of person Jim was describing with his mother. He wondered what previous interactions Jim had had that created such an irrefutable image in his mind. “It is true that I cannot have a truly objective view of her, as she is my mother. But I have never known her to criticize others except in instances where they are causing harm. As you have not done so to me, and in fact, what I have spoken of you to her has been on the subject of the happiness you have brought me, I do not think she will pass any unfavorable judgment on your character.”

Jim had turned back to the table again, though now he was still, and his focus seemed to be elsewhere. After a stretch of silence, which Spock did not mind allowing him, he sighed, his attention returning to his food. “Alright,” he said. “What time are we doing this?”

***

Given the fact that many members of Starfleet Academy, both students and instructors, had families that remained on other planets, the academy’s library was equipped with a small number of rooms containing devices capable of high-speed subspace transmissions. These were most often utilized for video communication, though occasionally some sought them out in order to transfer large files, when necessary. It was one of these rooms that Spock had reserved.

Jim had insisted on their arriving ten minutes of their scheduled time in order to “prepare himself,” though much of this time was spent in what seemed to be pointless examination of the room and pacing. Spock silently wondered what benefits this allowed him, though he did not think it was the correct time to ask.

A minute before their call, Spock convinced Jim to sit down next to him as he set up the necessary application.

“You are nervous,” he stated. Jim’s movements were simple enough to read.

“Yeah.”

“There is no reason to be.”

“I appreciate the sentiment and all, but that doesn’t really help.”

Spock looked over at him. His arms were crossed, one of his feet tapping insistently at the ground.

“Jim.”

He looked over, instinctually expectant, and Spock placed a hand on the side of his neck, urging him gently closer. Jim obliged, so Spock kissed him, inspiring a sound that he would categorize somewhere between a hum and a whine. When he leaned back, Jim followed him a small ways.

“One more?” he asked. Spock kissed him once more. It seemed to be an effective technique. Jim’s nervousness, though still present, settled into something less energetic.

“That helps a little,” Jim confirmed, smiling.

“I am gratified,” Spock said, and connected their call to his mother’s home office on Vulcan.

It took a brief moment for the connection to establish, forming a blurry picture on the screen that gradually resolved itself into an image of his mother, her office illuminated by the late afternoon sunlight.

He was struck by the sudden sense of homesickness he felt at the image of the residence he had grown up in. It had been five years since he had been home. But his mother’s face, at least, was some small comfort.

“Hello,” Spock said.

“Hello, Spock,” his mother responded, a smile on her face that was beaming by Vulcan standards. “It’s so wonderful to speak to you—it feels like an eternity since I last saw your face.” He was surprised by her expressiveness in the Standard language. As they held the majority of their conversations in Vulcan, he had never had reason to consider that her conversational tone relied greatly on the language she was utilizing. “Would you care to introduce us?”

He nodded, and turned to Jim. “Jim, this is my mother, Amanda Grayson.” Though the dialogue was largely unnecessary, he was aware of its ritual purpose. “Mother, this is James Kirk.”

“James,” she repeated. “May I call you James?”

“Uh…yeah, that’s fine.”

“Then it’s a pleasure to meet you, James.”

“Likewise, ma’am. I’m a big fan of your work.”

His mother hummed contemplatively. “Spock, dear,” she said, turning her attention back to him, “before I make an embarrassment of myself by assuming anything, would you please tell me what your and James’ relationship is?”

He felt Jim’s spike in anxiety before looking at him.

“ _You didn’t tell her?_ ” he said through his teeth, slouching and turning to face him.

Spock felt his face grow warm. He seemed to have made a number of different blunders in arranging this interaction.

“As our correspondence is generally in the Vulcan language, I was not certain what word would be the most descriptive of our relationship,” he explained to Jim, and then to his mother; “We are in a romantic relationship. Does that come as a great shock to you?”

“Not a great one,” she responded. “And what surprise I feel is pleasant. Don’t worry, James, I trust my son to make his own decisions.” She smiled, warmly, and Jim seemed to relax, if only slightly.

Perhaps his blunders were not so great after all.

***

They spoke for an hour and twenty minutes before his mother’s duties called her elsewhere, and she bade them both goodbye before disconnecting, their screen’s display showing them the logo of the application they were utilizing.

The moment the image changed, Jim leaned over, pressing his face into Spock’s shoulder.

He looked at him, perplexed. He had not sensed any strong emotions for the remainder of their call, so he did not believe Jim was greatly upset. He could not fathom another explanation for this behavior.

“That wasn’t too bad,” he mumbled, eventually.

Spock nodded. “I am grateful you spoke with her,” he said. “I believe you have helped to assuage her worries. She has always had concern that I would be lonely during my time on Earth.”

They were silent for a long moment. Spock could not move as Jim was still using him as a headrest.

“Are you?” Jim asked after that while. “Lonely, I mean.”

Spock gave the question its due consideration. It was not something he had brought to mind for some time.

“No,” he said. “I do not believe I am.”

***

It was the beginning of fall the next year that Spock began to feel a particular heat underneath his skin, and a restlessness in his emotional state. He was growing too easily irritated at his students, and had difficulty sleeping, though he had not gotten a sufficient amount in the days previous.

It was something he had only felt once before, and if he had interpreted the symptoms correctly, he had less than a week to take necessary action.

Hopefully he would not need to return to Vulcan to resolve it.

***

_Recipient: James T. Kirk_

When is the soonest I can speak with you in private?

-

_Recipient: Commander Spock_

Are you gonna be in your office in like half an hour?

-

_Recipient: James T. Kirk_

Yes. Can I plan to speak with you then?

-

_Recipient: Commander Spock_

Yeah. Don’t just leave me hanging though. What’s so urgent? Is everything okay?

-

_Recipient: James T. Kirk_

I merely need to make a time sensitive request of you. It concerns information I do not wish to put in writing.

-

_Recipient: Commander Spock_

Okay…suspicious, but I’ll take it. See you in a bit.

***

It was twenty-six minutes later when Jim arrived in his office, looking concerned despite Spock’s attempted reassurance.

“Hey,” he said, dragging a chair behind the desk in order to sit next to him. “What’s up? Are you okay?”

“I am currently, yes.”

Jim raised his eyebrows, no doubt realizing the implications of Spock’s qualification.

“I will explain soon,” he said. “But first, there are two questions I would like to ask of you. The first is if you feel in any way obligated to obey requests I make of you, even in the case that you do not feel entirely willing.”

“Nope,” said Jim, easily. “Why? Were you worried about that?”

“I had…some concern,” he admitted. “It is comforting to hear otherwise. My second question is if you feel our relationship has progressed to the possibility of including sexual intimacy.”

“ _Yes_ ,” he answered, leaning over and placing a hand on Spock’s knee. “That is _definitely_ something I am down for basically anytime.”

Spock nodded, slowly, considering how to phrase his request. It was not entirely a subject that he wished to discuss, especially as it was not frequently spoken of even on Vulcan.

“There is something I must ask of you, though I remind you again that you are under no obligation to agree.”

“Okay, well, if it’s about sex then that disclaimer is almost definitely unnecessary, but go on.”

He raised an eyebrow at Jim’s comment.

“Are you aware of pon farr?” he continued, regardless.

“Pon farr,” Jim repeated, frowning. “No, I don’t think so.”

“That is to be expected. It is a biological imperative of Vulcans, though one we keep a closely guarded secret. I would request that you not share this information unless it becomes absolutely necessary.”

“Oh. Planet-wide hush-hush. Okay, got it.”

Spock nodded. “Pon farr is what marks a Vulcan’s passage into physical maturity. It is a hormonal change that overcomes the bearer with the need to copulate. Though its first onset is generally able to be overcome by guided meditation, if that is the path desired, the instances later in adulthood almost always require…physical mediation.”

“So, basically, you need me to have sex with you?”

“More or less,” Spock agreed. “However, there is an additional component.”

“Well, I’m liking it so far,” Jim said. Spock found that this conversation was going much more favorably than he had imagined. “What else do we have to do?”

“Since you are human, I will need to establish a telepathic connection between us for the duration of the act.”

“What, like a mind-meld?”

“It is comparable, though not entirely. It is…” he frowned, searching for the correct words. Federation Standard did not have sufficient adjectives for describing mental connections. “Shallower,” he decided on.

“Alright. Is that it?”

He nodded, and Jim grinned. “Sounds fun,” he said. “When do you want to do this?”

Spock tilted his head. “You do not have reservations about the mental link?”

Jim shrugged. “I like trying new things,” he said. “Besides, I trust you.”

He watched Jim, carefully, but his ease seemed to be genuine. It also seemed to be somewhat contagious.

“Would tonight be agreeable?” he asked.

“Tonight?” Jim repeated, raising his eyebrows. “Well, uh…I sure wish it was, but I actually have something. What about tomorrow?”

He nodded. “Tomorrow.”

***

Though they did not serve a functional purpose, there were certain aspects of the rituals surrounding pon farr that Spock had some desire to emulate. However, it proved difficult, due to his absence from Vulcan and Jim’s many sensitivities. He would have liked to light incense in his room, but as Jim was largely unfamiliar with it, he was unable to advise on its relative safety in relation to his allergies. Spock settled for unscented candles and making a variety of tea that Jim had no adverse reaction to before.

Jim arrived early in the evening, letting himself in. “Spock?” he called from the foyer. Spock took the two mugs of tea from the counter and went to meet him, handing him one.

“Oh. Thanks,” he said, taking it.

“Do you require anything?” Spock asked, not entirely sure how to proceed.

“Not that I know of.” He took a sip of his tea, raising his eyebrows. “Anything I need to know before we get started?”

“Not that I know of,” Spock echoed. Jim grinned.

“Well, lead the way.”

He nodded, and went up the stairs, Jim following a few steps behind. The act of inviting him into his bedroom was crossing cultural boundaries, but Spock found that he did not feel it invasive. He did not mind inviting Jim further into his life.

Jim looked around the room with expected curiosity, hands wrapped around his tea. “It’s a little warm in here,” he commented.

“I can adjust the temperature, if you would like.”

“I don’t want you to be cold…”

Spock raised an eyebrow, and stepped over to the environmental controls, lowering the temperature to what he hoped would be sufficiently comfortable for both of them. He then walked over to his bed and sat down at the head of it, crossing his legs underneath himself.

“Sit, please,” he instructed, gesturing at the foot of the bed. Jim seemed confused at this, but obeyed anyways, settling at the end of the bed and mirroring Spock’s posture.

“I don’t know a whole lot about Vulcan, y’know, mating rituals,” he said, tapping his fingers against the side of the mug, “so you might have to walk me through this.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Fortunately, as we are not on Vulcan, we will not be performing one. I am…winging it.”

Jim grinned. “You’re cute when you use idioms,” he said. Then, “So you’re telling me there’s no special meaning to the tea?”

“No.” He took a drink. “However, I had hoped to use it as a kind of meditation implement. The mental link will be easier if you are able to calm your thoughts. You have expressed your dislike for traditional meditation techniques, and this was another option available to me. The time it takes to consume it may provide you sufficient time for relaxation.”

“Huh. Well, I’ll give it a shot.”

“Now would also be an ideal time to ask questions, if you have them.”

“What kind of questions?” he asked, smirking.

Spock took a long drink, closing his eyes. Jim had the tendency to be irritating, even at the best of times, and Spock was not currently controlling his mood with ease. “I was referring to anything pertinent to our current situation.”

“Right, right. Well…” he fidgeted with his mug, staring at it. “Okay, there’s not exactly a wealth of information about it on the Internet—trust me, I looked, I kind of wish I hadn’t—so I’m kind of wondering exactly how similar our, uh…reproductive equipment is.”

“I believe you will find both the form and function to be familiar.”

“Oh, good,” Jim said, letting out a breath. “I mean, I’m no stranger to, y’know, xenobiology, but it’s always a little awkward when something pops out you’re not expecting.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. He found himself curious, to an extent, but was simultaneously content not knowing those particular stories.

They sat in silence for a while, Jim apparently attempting to relax as he had suggested, not nearly as fidgety as he had been before.

When Jim finished his tea, Spock took his cup and placed them both on the bedside table before moving closer to him, holding both of his hands out and placing them on his psi points.

Jim watched him with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. “Do you need me to do anything?” he asked.

“Relax,” Spock informed him. “And trust me.”

“Alright.”

Jim closed his eyes, and Spock did the same, waiting for a moment for Jim’s nervousness to fade. It did, a small amount, so Spock extended his mind, entering into Jim’s and—

“ _Agh_.”

Jim pulled back, and Spock took his hands away, eyes wide. “Have I harmed you?” he asked, alarmed.

“No, no, just…” Jim shuddered, bodily. “That’s _such_ a weird feeling. Oh, god. Sorry. I think—I think I’m ready now.” He leaned forward, but Spock did not have to be in contact with him to know that his heart rate had not yet calmed.

He sought out his psi points once more, feeling Jim’s unrest. “I apologize. I will attempt to acclimate you. Please watch me.”

“Okay,” Jim said, his eyes meeting Spock’s.

He sought Jim out carefully this time, finding the boundary between them and resting against it. “This is my mind,” he informed him, hoping verbal guidance might provide some familiarity. “I will not enter into yours without permission.”

“Yeah,” said Jim. “You feel cold.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. He had never thought to ascribe a separate sensory description to another’s mind—but as Jim was not accustomed to this sense, it was logical he would contextualize it in terms that were familiar to him.

“Cold?”

“Not like, mean. Just kind of chilly.”

“Chilly,” Spock repeated, a smile pulling at the edge of his mouth. “I suppose ‘warm’ would not be an inaccurate descriptor of yours.” It was certainly energetic and ever-changing. As energy produced heat, it seemed appropriate. “Will you invite me in?”

Jim frowned. “Yeah,” he said. “How do I do that?”

Spock closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. Holding himself in this liminal space was more taxing than he had anticipated.

“Visualize your mind as a house,” he instructed, thinking back to the instructors he had as a young child, and modifying their message as he found appropriate. “It is solely yours. You have never invited me in before. This house has many rooms, some of which you do not want me to see. I will not enter these rooms. I will only go where you have invited me. There is a room at the entrance to this house that you have looked over, and have made sure nothing remains that you do not wish to share. Please open the door to that room for me.”

Jim closed his eyes again, but his thoughts were stilling and anxiety fading as he focused on the mental image he had been asked to form. Spock waited patiently until he felt something malleable in the boundary between them, and he fell into it, slowly.

Jim still seemed to feel some form of physical discomfort at this, but his thoughts were calm.

“Oh,” he breathed.

“I would now like for you to follow me,” Spock instructed. “You will return here soon.”

He sensed Jim’s agreement and guided him back across the barrier, into his own mind, where he welcomed Jim with ease.

He dropped his hands, and Jim opened his eyes.

“Oh,” he said, again, discomfort, apprehension, curiosity, fascination all running through his mind. “I guess I could get used to this.”

It was strange, for Jim, and Spock understood easily. “I believe you will find that there are benefits,” he said, placing his hands on Jim’s jaw and guiding him forward, Jim moving into his lap and meeting him with a kiss. Spock could clearly sense his delight at the invitation, and was sure Jim could sense his, as well.

Yes—there it was. His joyful surprise at Spock’s reaction.

“Do you always feel like this?” he asked, pulling apart. Spock pulled him back, confirming his question mentally instead. Jim considered the usefulness of being able to converse with their mouths otherwise occupied. Spock agreed.

There were, however, downsides to such a connection. When Jim slid his hands under the hem of Spock’s shirt, he could not disguise the anxiety he felt, even if it was not to an extent he found necessary to mention.

Jim leaned back, frowning in concern.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. It was a valid question to ask verbally, as Spock had reflexively closed off the answer.

He glanced away. “I…have not done this before,” he said.

“What, with…with a human? With a guy?”

“With anyone.”

Jim’s expression reflected the shock that was easily apparent otherwise, which he quickly and clumsily attempted to hide.

“Uh. Well. Okay. That’s fine.” He looked Spock over, various thoughts running through his head. “I’d say the biggest mistake people make their first time is not being attentive to their partner and, well,” he gestured upwards, with a brief self-referential thought. “I think you’ll be okay.”

Spock nodded, and Jim returned his hands to his waist, questioning—Spock removed his shirt in agreement, allowing Jim to push him onto his bed. He was fascinated by the expanse of skin revealed, and ran his hands over Spock’s torso, the feather-light touches surprisingly titillating. Jim removed his own shirt, as well, at the briefest hint of Spock’s curiosity, before leaning down and kissing Spock’s jaw, his neck, trailing down to his chest, nipping gently where he felt most appropriate and focusing with certain intentness on Spock’s reactions, most of which were not externally expressed.

He found it curious that Jim seemed to be equally aroused giving attention as Spock was at receiving it. Jim, in turn, did not find this curious at all.

He moved upwards, laying himself on top of Spock and kissing him, half-erect at his hip.

“Do you have any idea how hot you are,” he felt the need to specify out loud, “I’ve wanted to do this for _months_.”

Spock raised an eyebrow, experimentally rolling his hips up against him, and was rewarded as Jim gasped, the breath turning into laughter. “Fucker,” he said, affectionately, giving him an almost chaste kiss before sitting up and, after waiting a brief moment for permission, undid Spock’s pants, pulling them off.

Jim palmed at him, the friction almost frustrating—it was pleasant but it was not _enough_. Spock urged Jim to stem his curiosity, but he, irritatingly, did not. He turned his attention instead to the inside of Spock’s thigh, kissing and biting lightly at the similarly sensitive skin.

It was not unpleasant. But Spock did not enjoy being teased.

“Jim,” he said, in warning, and was surprised to find that Jim found his tone particularly arousing.

Jim dismissed it, as well as the embarrassment he felt, and removed the final layer of Spock’s clothing before sitting back and examining him.

He propped himself up on his elbows to look at Jim. He felt somewhat exposed, but Jim’s delight was too apparent to allow him any embarrassment. He simply raised his eyebrows, urging Jim to continue.

Jim flushed red. It was very apparent that he had a favorable response to being ordered around in this situation, though he had not anticipated Spock discovering it.

“We can talk about that later,” he said, voice strained, before ducking down and taking Spock in his mouth.

Spock gasped, grasping at the blanket. He was able to anticipate the action, but not his own response—Jim was pleased at both his reaction and the surprise he had at feeling it. He was also considering the odd taste, but attempted to push that thought from his mind at Spock’s noticing of it.

He put his hands on Spock’s hips, holding him down, and Spock was thankful for this when he discovered he was unable to suppress the initial reaction to thrust upwards when Jim ran his teeth lightly against the underside of him.

He laid back again in order to run his hands through Jim’s hair, scraping his short nails against his scalp as suggested, Jim’s pleased humming creating a very enjoyable, and purposeful, sensation.

Jim sat up a moment later, however, pressing an almost apologetic kiss to Spock’s head before smirking, his thoughts suggesting that Spock’s fingers would be more useful elsewhere.

“Did you get lube?” he asked. Spock sat up and opened the top drawer of his nightstand, procuring a small tube while Jim got up from the bed and fully undressed himself. He then placed himself back in Spock’s lap, resting an arm around his shoulders.

“Let me see your hand,” he said, and Spock had given up on finding his speech illogical. It was not unpleasant, in any case, to hear his voice.

He held his hand out, and Jim looked over it, examining his fingers closely and finding them not only well groomed, but attractive, as well. Spock wondered what exactly it was that made hands attractive, but Jim’s mouth at his fingertips interrupted his thoughts.

Jim grinned. “You know what to do?”

“I trust your guidance.”

He applied the lubrication to his fingers as Jim rose up onto his knees, bracing himself on Spock’s shoulders and pressing his face into his hair, wholly characterized by anticipation.

Spock reached behind him and traced around his entrance, stimulating that cluster of nerves before pushing two of his fingers in, shallowly. At no sign of discomfort, he slid them in to the second knuckle, letting Jim acclimate to the feeling before bending his fingers inwards, feeling the prostate gland just beyond the wall. Jim gasped and bucked forward instinctively, holding Spock close as pleasure soared through him.

He understood, then, how giving attention could be nearly as good as receiving it.

He experimented with variations on Jim’s instructions, sliding in and out of him, increasing or decreasing the amount of pressure, pulling away when Jim felt it was too much—it did not take long until he was red and panting against him, thrusting forward against his stomach seeking some manner of friction.

Spock provided it for him, wrapping his hand around his erection and rubbing, slowly but firmly. He could feel Jim containing himself, pulling inwards in an attempt to prolong the process, vague ideas forming about taking care of Spock, first.

Spock shielded his mind carefully as an idea occurred to him, and he tilted his head upwards to kiss at Jim’s shoulder and neck. “Jim,” he said, stilling his hands. “ _Come_.”

Jim cried out partially in surprise as the command brought about its obedience, his mind alight with sensation but clear of coherent emotion and thought until he slumped against Spock, nuzzling against his neck affectionately.

“Fuck,” he said, in wonder. “ _Fuuuck…_ ”

He slid downwards and took Spock in his mouth again, almost reverent in his attention and certainly thankful. Spock moved to run a hand through his hair before realizing they were both soiled, somewhat—however, Jim projected indifference to this fact, so Spock ran his nails against Jim’s scalp anyways.

He was already highly aroused from their previous activities. It was soon after that he tugged lightly at his hair, warning, “Jim,” breathlessly.

Jim was indifferent to this warning, as well, so Spock allowed him to continue until it was too much. He moaned deeply as the sensation overwhelmed him, spending himself in Jim’s throat.

Jim released him, and swallowed, before smiling hazily and patting Spock’s thigh.

“Was it good for you, too?” he asked, voice low and lazy.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Yes,” he answered, though he found it unnecessary.

“Hey, sometimes it’s nice to have verbal confirmation,” he mumbled, before rolling over and stretching indulgently, asking for Spock’s attention which he was more than willing to give. He looked Jim over, gaze slowly traveling down to his feet and back up again. Jim’s interest piqued at the attention, but it was drowned out by drowsiness.

Spock leaned over and kissed him before getting up and going to his bathroom in order to wash his hands. When he returned, Jim was lying face down on his bed.

“Jim,” he said, sitting on the edge of it. He turned to look, and Spock placed his hand on his psi points once more, opening his mind.

Generally, separating minds was simpler than joining them, especially in species who were not accustomed to telepathic connections. But Spock found himself forced to actively disentangle his mind from Jim’s before they separated, Jim returning unharmed.

Spock removed his hand, and Jim frowned. “Feels kind of quiet now, doesn’t it,” he said.

There was a certain energy to Jim’s mind that Spock had grown accustomed to in only their short time together. He was also certain he would miss the insight he had into Jim’s emotions, not having to guess what his reactions meant.

“You require a shower,” he said, rather than voicing his thoughts. Jim groaned, once again burying his face in the blanket.

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice muffled.

“You have semen in your hair.”

“’S not the first time.”

Spock frowned, finding himself repulsed but oddly curious, as well.

That, however, was not the issue at hand. He did not want his bed to become any dirtier than it already had been.

“You may choose to shower, or you may choose to leave,” he said.

Jim propped himself up on his elbows in order to look at him.

“You mean, if I shower, you’ll let me stay?”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “That was my intention, yes.”

Jim grinned. “Well, can we shower together?”

“That would be…efficient.”

Jim got up.

***

Spock got up early in order to prepare for the day and make it to campus for his office hours. Jim did not stir when he got up, so he left him there while he got dressed and went downstairs to fix himself a small meal and a thermos of tea for the morning.

He felt…calm, and noticeably so. He postulated that it was due to the resolution of pon farr, and left a message requesting Jim to lock the door when he left, before beginning his morning walk to campus.

***

At 10:28, he felt a sudden sense of alarm that he could not attribute a source to. However, it quickly faded into a vague realization, and then disappeared. He tilted his head slightly, and continued teaching, resolving to investigate the sensation at a later date.

***

He took lunch in his office, as there was grading that needed to be done. In the middle of reviewing a student project, he felt amused. Perhaps ‘tickled’ was an accurate descriptor, as it brought upon an urge to laugh.

He merely blinked, staring at his PADD until the emotion faded.

How…peculiar.

***

It was when he was walking with Jim later that day that he finally discovered the cause. Jim was relating to him a story about his childhood involving a stray dog he had taken in, when he paused, eyes widening, and he— _Spock_ —felt a sense of panic.

He blinked. It had occurred exactly in time with Jim’s expression.

Perhaps these emotions were, in fact, Jim’s.

Gaila walked over to them, revealing herself as the source of Jim’s panic, though Spock could not fathom why.

She invited herself into Jim’s personal space, hooking a finger through one of his belt loops. “Exciting night, huh?” she said, leaning forward and kissing Jim’s face.

He flushed red, pushing her away, gently. “Gaila,” he said, glancing at Spock for a moment. He frowned.

She sighed, stepping away and rolling her eyes. “Right. You’re a _married man_ , now, sorry,” she said, putting her hands up. “You’re telling me all about it later, though.” She pat his chest, and then smiled before continuing on her way, leaving the two of them alone once more.

“Sorry,” Jim said. “I told her she probably shouldn’t be so touchy with me, since I’m with you now, but…I don’t think it’s really sticking.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Are you concerned I would suspect you of infidelity?”

“Well…yeah,” he said, as if it were obvious. “That’s kind of suspicious.”

“I am aware Orions are more affectionate in their relationships. I do not think that her actions are any measure of your commitment. Furthermore, I believe I am the one who owes you an apology.”

Jim stared at him, his confusion evident. “An apology?” he echoed. “For what?”

“I made a mistake in the reversal of what was meant to be a temporary bond,” Spock explained, removing one of his gloves. “A residual connection still remains. Please allow me to remove it.” He reached towards Jim’s face, but he leaned back, catching Spock’s wrist.

“Woah, woah, woah,” he said. “You mean…this is _you_?”

He felt a sense of curiosity push through their bond, purposefully transmitted. He lowered his hand.

“Yes,” he said, tilting his head. “You are remarkably adept at identifying it for one with no related training.”

Jim smiled. “It felt familiar,” he explained, and then looked at the ground, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh…if you want to remove it, then I won’t stop you, but I kind of like it.” He looked back up at him, smile turning into more of a question. “Do you think you could leave it?”

Spock felt…suddenly, affectionate, and he was certain this time that this emotion was his own. He shared it with Jim, and then took his hand, rather than replacing his glove. Jim laced his fingers through his.

“The bond may grow stronger if allowed to remain,” Spock informed him.

“Well, if it gets too much, I can ask you to get rid of it, right?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Then…we’ll see.”

***

He was immeasurably grateful for Jim’s decision.

It was not something he would have asked for, but as Jim gave it freely, he was happy to reap the benefits. It was comforting to have a quiet reminder of him while they were parted, as well as an aid to understanding Jim’s emotions while they were together. He seemed, to Spock, to be singularly emotional—he felt very strongly about many things. But, perhaps, that was simply what it was to be human.

He was allowed to be grateful for four days.

At the beginning of the next week, very early in the morning, Spock found himself meditating, as he was not tired enough to sleep. There was little to think about, and few emotions to consider—he had been content in the past few weeks, and certainly not bored. His work schedule was rigid enough to allow him comfort, and Jim was more than enough to prevent monotony. He was satisfied with his place in life.

His meditation, however, was interrupted by an overwhelming sense of fear. It was the first transference that Spock reacted to physically—his heart rate increased and his breathing felt constricted before he hurriedly blocked himself off from the bond, standing up and looking around his room as he calmed himself, reassuring his subconscious that he was not, in fact, in any danger.

Once he had settled, he opened himself to the bond once more, projecting curiosity and comfort—and found himself abruptly cut off from the other side.

He frowned. It was not an adept block, but it was strong enough for Spock to realize he was not wanted in that moment, so he refrained from prying.

He messaged Jim, instead, asking “Are you alright?” before sitting down at his desk and bringing up the code for the Kobayashi Maru project to look over. There was no hope of returning to meditation after such a large emotional upset, as well as not being certain as to Jim’s safety. He would instead distract himself from the matter.

It was fortunate that he chose to do so, as it was nearly a half hour later that Jim finally responded, his message simply saying, “Yeah. Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

Spock considered correcting his assumption that he had been sleeping, but decided it was not important. He examined the bond, instead, and after discovering Jim was still blocking it, let the matter rest.

He was safe, that was what was most important. Spock would allow him his privacy.

***

Jim continued closing his mind off well into the afternoon. It slipped, occasionally, but the moment Spock turned his attention to it, Jim forced him out again.

He was beginning to wonder if he had done something in particular to upset him, but that was an illogical thought. He had not been with Jim during the moment he stopped accepting the bond, so it was unlikely Spock was to blame.

He still could not prevent his feeling of unease.

***

He finally met Jim as he was walking back to his office after his last class of the day. He was laying once again on the couch at the end of the hallway, holding a book up over his head, at least examining it, if not actually focused on reading.

Spock stood over him, hands clasped behind his back. “Jim,” he said. “I am glad to see you.”

Jim shut his book and stood up. “Hey,” he said, squeezing Spock’s upper arm in greeting, expression...blank. “Yeah. We should...talk, I think.”

“I think so, as well.” Spock said. “Come with me.”

He led them both to his office, opening the door for Jim and walking in after him. He took a seat in front of Spock’s desk, so Spock set his PADD down on the other side before walking back around and taking the chair next to him.

“Something has been bothering you,” he stated.

Jim nodded, running his hands down his thighs in what seemed to be a nervous habit. “I’m...having second thoughts about this mental link thing.”

“I had surmised as much.” It was not difficult, as Jim had been reacting negatively to it all day. “Would you like me to remove it?”

He looked up at Spock, frowning. “I...I don’t know. I kind of want to know how you feel about this, Spock.”

Spock tilted his head. “I thought I had made my stance clear. If you no longer felt comfortable with the bond, I would remove it. Is there something else you wish to know?”

“Yeah,” Jim said. “I want to know...I just, I’ve been thinking about this all morning, and I feel bad because I thought...this was something I could do to make you happy, you just...seem a lot happier lately. So I feel guilty for not wanting this. So I want...I don’t want you to just say you’re okay with it to make me feel better. I just want to know how you do feel. You almost never talk about that, it’s kind of nerve-wracking sometimes.”

Spock nodded, contemplatively. How did he feel, exactly? He did not know that he was experiencing any strong reaction to Jim’s request. It was only to be expected.

“I was happy that you wanted to remain bonded,” he said, attempting to gather his thoughts. “And I do not feel strongly about your choice to rescind your request. It is not surprising that you are uncomfortable with such intimacy, as we have only been together for a short time.”

“Uh,” said Jim, eyebrows drawing together, “I don’t really feel like almost a year is a ‘short time.’ “

“Of course,” Spock said, inclining his head. “I did not mean to dismiss our relationship as insignificant, I merely meant…” he frowned, searching for the correct phrasing that would not further upset Jim. “There is context that I believe is missing. Allow me to explain.”

“Alright. Go ahead.” Jim gestured forward in the space ahead of them, before leaning back and crossing his arms. It was an unwelcoming posture. Spock hoped that he had not made an irreparable mistake.

“A bond between Vulcans is a highly intimate gesture,” he began. “It signifies absolute trust and honesty, and its very structure enforces those principles. It is…like human marriage, in a way, though many Vulcans who become legally bound choose to delay mental bonding, or forego it entirely. It is done with the explicit intention of being bound for life. Additionally, even when bonded, it is under the assumption that all parties have sufficient training to conceal certain aspects of their mental state if they find it wholly necessary. You have not received this training. It is not something I would have asked of you.” He folded his hands together, hoping his explanation served well enough. “Do you understand now why I contextualized our relationship as too brief to enter into such a commitment?”

Jim scuffed one of his heels against the floor, frowning.

“Yeah,” he said, eventually. “That makes sense.”

Then he sighed, heavily, his shoulders relaxing. He ran a hand through his hair in an almost irritated manner. “I’m really, really not having a good day, Spock,” he said, voice strained, eyes beginning to glisten.

Spock longed for the clarity of the bond more than ever, but did not allow himself to seek Jim out through it.

“Would you like to talk about it?” he asked, instead, allowing Jim to only share what he wished to.

“Not really?” Jim said, his voice pitching upwards as if it were a question. “That’s kind of why I…don’t want this bond thing anymore. There’s…there’s some stuff I’m not really ready to share.”

“And I would not ask you to,” Spock replied, softly. “Please. Allow me to remove it.”

Jim sniffed, and then nodded. Spock reached over and placed a hand on his face, feeling the guilt, and sorrow, and fear that Jim did not allow to travel through the bond. He opened his mind and they separated easily, the residual connections seeming to curl away from him, as if protecting themselves.

Spock let go. He searched his mind for any remaining connection, and found only his memories.

“Thanks,” Jim said, weakly.

“It is no problem.”

***

Spock did not miss their bond as much as he theorized he would. While it had offered particular insight into Jim’s emotions and motivations, Jim was often willing to explain these things verbally in replacement, and never questioned Spock’s lack of understanding.

He felt comfortable around Jim, and found himself more and more able to admit his lack of knowledge surrounding human practices, and therefore more and more able to learn them.

He did not know what he valued more highly. The enlightening nature of their conversations, or the ease at which he enjoyed them.

It was fortunate that he did not have to choose.

***

Approximately one and a half years later, he invited Jim into his office under very different circumstances.

“Sit,” he told him, pointing to a chair across from his desk. Jim did, still grinning despite what Spock considered the severity of their situation.

He took his place behind the desk, folding his hands on top of it. “Cadet Kirk,” he said, attempting to separate their current predicament from their personal life.

“Aw, come on,” Jim said, slouching in his chair. “You know using that tone of voice just turns me on.”

Spock felt his neck heat, spreading to his ears, which were no doubt now a vivid green. He did, in fact, know that.

“I would appreciate it if you would, at least momentarily, take this seriously.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “So I hacked your test,” he said. “So what? Write a new one.”

“That is not my concern,” Spock said, growing more irritated by the second. “I have no doubt the administration is aware of our relationship. If it appears that I assisted you in cheating this simulation, both your academic career and my conduct as a Starfleet officer will come into question.”

“Okay.” Jim placed his elbow on the arm of his chair, and rested his chin on his hand, disinterested. “So report me for it.”

“You already have two demerits on your file,” Spock reminded him. “A third will result in a disciplinary hearing.”

Jim shrugged. “What’re they gonna do,” he asked. “Suspend me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next scene, of course, is about the first minute of this video https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qs0J2F3ErMc


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _... a special directory, called "lost+found," where the system places lost and potentially corrupted files when the correct location cannot be determined, and so requires manual intervention by the user ..._

_Mother,_

_I miss your letters._

_Your words have always been a comfort to me, and I meditate on them in times of doubt. Though you may have believed me inattentive, I still remember clearly the advice you struggled to give me when I was young; that it was no fault of mine my Vulcan peers did not accept me._

_I have come to carry my humanity with pride alongside my Vulcan heritage. It seems there is no end to the gifts I inherited from you, and I am immeasurably thankful. It is simple now to recognize the utility of both my Human and my Vulcan traits, as well as the unique abilities and perspective I am allowed as someone who shares equally in both heritages._

_My work and my colleagues continue to challenge me, but it is no longer difficult to simply live._

_Thank you, mother. I will love and carry you with me always._

_Your son._

_-_

Spock folded the paper into three equal sections, creasing each fold carefully before opening the ornamented box at his feet and placing the letter on top of many others he had left there.

He sensed Jim’s presence before he heard him, asking silently for permission to approach. Spock granted it, and soon felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing comfortingly.

He looked up at him, and Jim smiled, holding out a bouquet of blooming white and yellow daffodils, interspersed with stalks of rosemary and sage flowers. “Thought she might like them,” he mumbled, self-conscious as he placed them at the base of the gravestone.

Spock stood, sliding his arm around Jim to place his hand on the small of his back. “Thank you,” he said.

Jim nodded, and then stepped closer in order to rest his head on Spock’s shoulder.

They stood there a while, silent in each other’s company, but allowing their emotions to flow freely, Spock’s grief settling lightly into the love and comfort Jim offered him, sympathizing with his loss.

Jim righted himself when Spock slowly drew himself back.

“You ready?” he asked.

Spock nodded. “We should return to the ship.”

Jim took his hand, and they went home.


End file.
